poor intern! (sad face)

coworker1 (4:58:02 PM): u have no idea whats goin on
me(4:58:05 PM): why
coworker1 (4:58:06 PM): we all think
coworker1 (4:58:07 PM): the
coworker1 (4:58:10 PM): intern
coworker1 (4:58:15 PM): made a doodie in his pants
me(4:58:48 PM): I KNOW!
me(4:59:00 PM): what is going on???
me(4:59:04 PM): it's TERRIBLE!
me(4:59:21 PM): i feel like im in a port-o-pottie
coworker1 (4:59:24 PM): its horrific
coworker1 (4:59:31 PM): diaper change
me(4:59:51 PM): doy ou really think?
me(4:59:56 PM): or just bad gas?
me 5:00:02 PM): what is GOING ON? and just today, right?
coworker1 (5:00:10 PM): i mean the only thing missing to make it 100% clear is a turd trail
coworker1 (5:00:13 PM): but yes
me(5:00:44 PM): just today, right?
coworker1 (5:00:50 PM): as far as i can tell
me(5:00:53 PM): ok good.
me(5:00:55 PM): poor guy.
me(5:01:01 PM): you should casually tell him that he can go hom.
me(5:01:03 PM): home.
me(5:01:09 PM): since no one is really here.
coworker1 (5:01:37 PM): should i stand up and say- "Im going to ask as politely as possible..but did SOMEONE SHT THEIR PANTS?
me(5:01:46 PM): NO!

haha - this is why working with people in asia can be funny

From: xx, xx: Research
Sent: Thursday, July 02, 2009 4:52 AM
To: xx, x: Sales
Subject: RE: Feedback: REITS

Hello XXX,

Basically unemployment rate tends to be lagged with office vacancy rates and market expects vacancy rates will still continue to go up for a while so the question is when it will stop deterioration.

Sorry for not allowed to provide you any onion at the moment.

Regards

ASIAN CO WORKER

and he calls them "beetles"

Not even a week ago, I blogged about my ability to see disgusting things that others do not.

I am squiggling in my seat bc I can't decide whether I want to VOM on my keyboard or do the Chicken dance. Ok, so my team took the head of Asia XXXX (I am making this work generic…just know that he's very very senior. Let's call him Mr. Asia) to a Thai restaurant. I was sitting at the head of the table, he was to my right. My coworker, we'll call him MR. BLIND, was to my left.

Our entrees had just arrived. I got Beef with Chilies and Scallions and a side of Brown Rice. It was GOOD! And then I saw it. A 3 inch Cockroach on Mr. Asia's right wrist. It was rapidly making it's way up his arm. I looked over at Mr. Blind - because there was NO WAY he could have missed the cockroach since he was sitting DIRECTLY ACROSS from Mr. Asia, unless he was, well, blind.

Mr. Blind saw my pleading and silent eyes and pushed my water glass closer to me because(in his own words) he "thought your dish was too spicy" Useless bag of turd.

I closed my eyes and I made a decision. I would excuse myself and discreetly brush the Cockroach off onto the floor, which was now on Mr. Asia's back. No one would even know. I had to take one for the team.

When I opened my eyes, I realized the Cockroach had already made its way down his LEFT arm. Fast little ucker-fay. Without thinking, I slapped at Mr. Asia's forearm with my BARE HAND. Mr. Asia looked up at me with a "what's wrong with you, girl?" look on his face. I clamped my hand over my mouth to supress a scream and pointed to the Cockroach that had just flown over two tables and was doing a Zulu Backspin like a B-Boy on the floor.

So, I understand that there are Cockroaches in New York City. I just don't understand why I have to be the one to spot them first.

I AM

SO DISGUSTED.

everyone has a special talent. and mine is to gross myself out. i'm also very good at cracking myself up. but one talent at a time. what I am very good at doing is noticing things that people are not supposed to see. i mean, things that humans do in secret or on accident and then hopes that that no one caught them "doing that."

examples? nose picking. everyone does it. i barely blink an eye when I see someone casually brushing their nose with their digit and allow their finger to linger. but i seem to take it a step further and spot the people who not only pick their nose, they also lick their fingers afterwards. correction. they SUCK with RELISH on their fingers afterwards (you know who you are - and i always see you! STOP, PLEASE!). another example just happened two minutes ago and is the inspiration of this blog entry: i just saw a co-worker, who I swear is one lab test away from being diagnosed with the swine flu, cough out plegm halfway out his mouth, and slurp it back in.

(I'm cracking myself up right now! that’s how unbelievable it was! talent number two!)

the worst part is, he furtively looked around to see if anyone saw him. and we made eye contact (TERRIBLE!) to which i started reciting hamlet's soliloquy "To Be, Or Not To Be" very loudly so that my randomness would abate our mutual embarassment because i'm so...random. similar to the time my dad passed gas very loudly in a movie theater and so I burped even louder so that people would forget that he arted-fay (that's farted in pig latin).

Blech. I feel ill.

yo

I almost scared myself death this morning. TO DEATH.

I was taking a shower when I noticed that the bandaid I put over my blister was coming off. I gently peeled it off and placed it on the edge of my tub, telling myself not to forget that it was there.

As I bent down to inspect the blister in closer detail, I saw a cockroach surf down a rivulet of shower water towards the foot I was standing on. I screamed. Nay, I ( more like) SHRIEKED, "YOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

Yo?

You see, I was so frightened that I couldn't decide whether to say, "YEEEEEEEEEEEEE!" or "NOOOOOOOOOOO" so instead I said both, i.e., "YOOOOOOOOO!" which sounded like exactly the wrong thing to say at the time.

I mean, seriously, I said YO? YO was actually in the running for the last words uttered by me? (Not being melodramatic here, just very realistic...I slipped and saw grades K through 5 scroll through my brain before I grabbed onto the towel rack).

I felt silly. And then felt really silly when I realized that the cockroach was actually the bandaid that I just placed on the side of the tub, yo.

*crunch*

S turned me on to these little crostinis. Simple ingredients - durum flour, olive oil, water. delicious and a real satisfying crunch.

I was munching on some when I came up with the MOST BRILLIANT experiment. How Many Crunches Before You Get A Real Person While Waiting On The Phone For Time Warner?

I was a nerdy knocked-kneed girl in 8th grade (incidentally, that was the vertex of my intellectual parabola (the kind of parabola where a<0). i was valedictorian AND i won the spelling bee). and even tho i may have looked really cute in my uniform, i was tooootaly a nerd. por ejemplo, i didn't know why people giggled when i said, "i'm going to wear my maryjanes to school." who knew that meant marijuana? not me, that's who. anyway, that year, i won the 8th grade science project with my scientific method approved "testing plants with bleach." (the same year, i believe, erin won for her year for inventing the "pooper scooper"...a tool that scooped the poop rabbits ooped!)

i knew i was up for the task.

THE EXPERIMENT:

Overview
The purpose of this experiment is to disprove that it actually matters if English is spoken when in the grips of the Time Warner IVR (interactive voice recognition) system.
Safety
Glass of water to mitigate chocking hazards.
Chair to administer self Heimlich should subject choke.
Procedures
1) Dial 212 358 0900
2) whenever prompted to speak, CRUNCH on a crostini
Equipment
1) Crostini
2) Phone
Bias
Previous experience dealing TW.
Control
Navigating IVR with English
Outcome
IT DOES NOT MATTER IF YOU SPEAK CROSTINI OR ENGLISH. YOU STILL DON'T GET A REAL PERSON.

why does that not surprise me?

isn't it interesting (mildly) that

Vaseline and Baseline don't rhyme?

I'm just saying that it's okay to spend 2 seconds thinking about it, that's all.

...the size of your leg...

On my way to the subway on 18th and 7th last week, I saw a cuuuuuutie pie Yorkie. Actually, it was only cute because it was tiny and everything tiny has a better chance of being cute (like Vern Troyer. A life size Vern would be terrifying. Just terrifying). The Yorkie was about the size of three apples (exactly the size of Hello Kitty, btw), and it had a RED FLOWER behind its ear. iiii know! RIDICULOUS, but also so adorable that you wanted to smash it because it was so cute it was causing you intense pain in your chest.

Anyway, the Yorkie was quivering…as if it's Burberry trench coat was doing little to keep out the Spring chill. But WAIT. It wasn't the chill that was causing the Yorkie to quiver like a bowl of jello on a vibrating bed…it was TOTALLY DOING A POOP!!!! (EWWWWWWWWWWWWWW).

This has always grossed me out and always will. The thought of having to pick up warm POOP through a plastic bag makes me want to violently retch. But I was just FASCINATED by the size of the poop. It was at least 3.5 inches long. This is LONGER than the Yorkie's LEG. CAN YOU IMAGINE IF HUMANS DID THE EQUIVALENT? Um, let's not imagine.

i'm MAGIC! (use me wisely, soldier)

lostsomething99: ok so I lost something I don't want to tell you what bc it will make it more real but send good vibes and pray I find it ok?

irenejkim77: ok...i know that feelign and can empathize. (sending vibes)

lostsomething99: OH MY GOD

lostsomething99: You are magic

lostsomething99: I was just putting on my sweatshirt

lostsomething99: and heard a loud noise

lostsomething99: and I found it!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

lostsomething99: THis is amazing

lostsomething99: it is my diamond locket

irenejkim77: ARE YOU SERIOUS?

irenejkim77: wow! (i have magical powers...and i never knew)

lostsomething99: YOU ARE MAGIC!!!!!!!!

irenejkim77: I'm MAGIC!

lostsomething99: it was like seconds

ok friends - giving all of you guys *one* chance to use this trick. IM me if you lost something. let's see if it works again!

the WORST

I did the worst thing this morning. The absolute worst thing.

Instead of drinking this:


(Coconut Water (full of potassium and electrolytes. Good for muscle cramping and hangovers!))


I drank this:


CHICKEN BROTH!!!!!


Gggalahchachalahaachhh!

inappropriate giggle syndrome

CONFESSION: i have inappropriate giggle syndrome. i've had it for about 20 years now, and as far as i know, there is no known cure.

i remember the exact moment when i thought to myself "gee, it feels so right and so wrong to be laughing right now." my brother and i were horsing around in front of our 344 surrey drive house in bonita, ca. i was lacing up my old school roller skates and my brother was working on his bicycle. he was tossing a screwdriver up in the air and catching it with the same hand. except something went all a bit wrong. the screwdriver slipped through his fingers and drove right through his foot and into the grass underneath. as time stopped for both of us, our jaws slack at the grotesque sight of foot shish kabob, i burst into laughter. and i'm not talking about a little giggle. i'm talking - DYYYYING of laugher.

WAIT WAIT WAIT! before you pass judgment on me, let me clarify the situation...the screwdriver didn't actually pierce his skin. it somehow wiggled its way right into the crack between his big toe and his second toe. I KNOWWWW! that's why it was SO FUNNY. well, no, that is NOT why it was so funny because i was laughing even before i knew it didn't pierce his skin. it's more accurate to say, "that's why it was funnIER".

before you go thinking that i'm a insensitive troglodyte, i did roll over to my brother with one pink roller skate THROUGH GRASS (do you know how difficult this is???) with my arms outstretched. mentally, i was prepared to pull the screwdriver out of his foot and suck all of the poison out of the wound (oh wait, i think that's what you do in a rattlesnake emergency). but, look. i was ready to put my mouth on his foot. that counts for something, right?

i don't get it.

so...i'm asian, not hispanic, or latino? thanks for clearing that up.

booooop!

I'm on the phone for about 75% of my day, talking to clients and getting voicemails.

You know what is really confusing?

When this happens:

*ring ring* *ring ring*

Client: Hi, it's CLIENT
Irene: Hey Client, it's Irene from xxx. Glad I caught you live because ---
*booooooooooooooop*

Listen people - don't make it so that your voicemail sounds like you're actually answering the phone. Even the standard automated voicemail is preferable. You know, the *robotic voice* "EYE-REEN KIM BOOOOOP" voicemail.

Don't play mean tricks on me. Change your voicemail.

I saw the above sign on the subway the other day.


It said, "When that cold, fresh Budweiser pours out of a clean tap into a beer clean glass, it just might be the pinnacle of perfection."


First of all - GROSS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! This ad is only calling attention to the fact that 99.9% of Buds poured across bars in America is probably NOT poured out of a clean tap and into a clean beer glass! Ew.


Second of all - pinnacle of perfection? Come on, really? Bud: you're reaching.


Third of all - did they mean "…pours out of a clean tap into a CLEAN BEER glass" not a "BEER CLEAN glass"?


It didn't make sense that Bud would make a mistake with their bajillion Ad dollars, so I did some googling.

Definition of Beer Clean Glass from www.about.com: That glass may look clean, but invisible residue (like soap or grease) can cause beer's foam to dissipate quickly. A "beer-clean" glass is completely clear of residue.


Oh. It's still a confusing poster.

you go, girlfriend!

irenejkim77: so i just got a bday card for my mom.
irenejkim77: and i didn't look inside to see what it said. the front is a really beautiful peacock design.
irenejkim77: but inside, it says, "you go, girlfriend!"
irenejkim77: isn't that kinda...incongrous?

irenejkim77: i mean, can i really send this to my mom?

irenejkim77: um. hello??

can i ask you a question?

Am I a human dog whistle? Do I speak at a decible imperceptible to the human ear? When I talk, are dolphins crashing into the window of the room that I'm in?

The reason why I ask is because last night I went to a little Oscar get together. When the announcers for Best Supporting Actress came onstage, we started chattering about the alien looking, pale woman on stage. "Whoa, who is she? What's her name? When did she win? Why does she look like a tall glass of milk?"


I knew the answer, so I said, "That's Tilda Swinton. She won last year." Apparently, this is what I sounded like: " ____________" because people continued to look at each other with their hands in the air and the Dubya expression on their faces. I turned to Schuyler who hears every sniffle and sigh I make and asked, "Did I actually make noise just then?"

Anyway, when the announcers for Best Costume came onstage, I was not surprised that "The Dutchess " won. I mean, come on, it was the only period piece!

So, this is what i said:

Irene: Well, that's not very surprising...it was the only nominated period piece.

Then...


Jamie: Do you guys think it's that surprising that The Dutchess won? It IS the only period piece.

Then...


Chad: The only reason why that movie won is because it's the only period piece.


It's all so confusing. Until I wiki-ed the properties of human hearing. And what I found was very interesting. "Humans are equipped with very sensitive ears capable of detecting sound waves of extremely low intensity. The faintest sound which the typical human ear can detect has an intensity of 1*10-12 W/m2 (ok, whatever whatever). A sound with an intensity of 1*10-12 W/m2 corresponds to a sound which will displace particles of air by a mere one-billionth of a centimeter (emphasis added). The human ear can detect such a sound. WOW! (Surprisingly, I did not add this "WOW!". It was already there). The faintest sound which a human ear can detect is known as the threshold of hearing. The most intense sound which the ear can safely detect without suffering any physical damage is more than one billion times more intense than the threshold of hearing."

Then I found this chart. I guess sometimes I'm below the Threshold of Hearing. So ironic because I feel like my whole life people have been telling me to be more quiet.

yes, yes it's true

i wrote a blog detailing my recent stomach flu and my ()oop's resemblance to magic sand, the sand that repels water...but i took it down.

so, to all of you who wrote me, you weren't imagining things. it was up for a day and then i deleted it.

love,
irene

hmph

i'm so perturbed. faithful reader a. shau brought to my attention that in the trailer for "confessions of a shopaholic", the main character is seen breaking her credit card out of a block of ice.

THAT'S MY TRICK! (see may 5, 2007 blog "people who wear glasses just know")

hmph.

addendum to my last post in IM

16:32:08 REBECCA CHAMBERS : why is that a cervical traction system?
16:32:11 REBECCA CHAMBERS : i am confused
16:32:19 IRENE KIM : I KNOW
16:32:23 IRENE KIM : i need to put something in there
16:32:30 IRENE KIM : allegedly, cervical also means neck
16:32:33 IRENE KIM : who knew?
16:32:36 REBECCA CHAMBERS : omg that is even funnier!
16:32:41 REBECCA CHAMBERS : i was already peeing my pants

For you men out there, "cervical" reminds women of the part of our bodies that gets probed with an archaic torture tool called a "speculum" once a year.

a speculum is an instrument used to explore body cavities. i'm done with this blog.

worst idea ever

DANGER DANGER!

I can see this scenario ending in many different ways, none of them good. come on SKYMALL!

***

ActiveForever is excited to carry the NECKpro Over-door Cervical Traction System! The NECKpro offers simple, easy, effective and portable cervical traction. It comes completely assembled, ready to use right out of the box and is the perfect travel companion. This easy to use cervical traction device has many great features that separates it from the rest of the cervical traction devices on the market.

Extraterrestrial Sadness

the other day i stepped into the "1/2/3" subway line and tried to make myself as small as possible next to the greasy, fingerprinted, kid slobber pole. I was trying not to touch anything except for the pole, which i was essentially only poking with my forefinger so as to minimize surface area in contact with said pole. i kept my neck stiff and at a slight bend backwards because someone's hair was getting dangerously close to my forehead (shudder). if there's one thing i can't stand, it's strange hair on or near my forehead. i can still remember the day i saw a tiny louse jump from sylvia beng's hair to debbie gold's hair in kindergarden. so if anyone knows of the dangers involved with strange hair to hair contact, it's ME.

anyway, that's not what this blog is about. it's about ET and feeling sad. let's continue.
everyone poured out at the 34th street stop and i had a little more room to move around, i.e. widen my stance to a wrestling pose (see pic) so that i didn't have to touch ANYTHING. that's when i noticed a bumbling, mumbling looking man cradling a swaddle of cloth. i almost expected him to look up and say, "hi, i'm lenny from 'of mice and men' and this is my rabbit. i am about to crush him with my love." the man was rocking the swaddle back and forth and i needed to know what was in his arms.

i casually walked over to him, careful to keep my balance (sidenote: i once fell into the lap of a man when the subway lurched to a stop bc i was poking the pole as opposed to gripping it as most people do. to clarify, i sat on him. to further clarify, i SAT ON HIM. the worst part of it was when i stood up, i realized that he had two broken legs. NOT FROM ME. they were like that already. but it was terrible. just terrible.)

"lenny" saw me coming so he snuggled the bundle closer and said, "...pecker". i recoiled in horror! he was a total perv! luring curious women to his lair and then muttering juvenile synonyms for a man's dingaling! then he said it again. "WOODpecker." oooh, a WOODpecker! amazing. i didn't even know that they existed in new york city, i said. he solemnly nodded. they do exist in new york city. and this one was dying.

when i saw the tiny, barely born bird, I felt an awful sad nostalgia wash over me. because once, when my brother and i were young, we saw a small figurine on the asphalt outside of baskin robbins (always got bubble gum ice cream, spat out bubble gum, saved them for later). look! i said. a toy! we ran over to it and i said, "it's E.T! it's E.T!!! YAHOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!" it wasn't until i picked it up that i realized it was actually a tiny little bird that had fallen out of its nest. not E.T. at all. and it looked exactly like the pecker (woodpecker, that is) on was on subway. i didn't finish my ice cream and i cried secret tears on the way home.

i'm not sure what to do with this blog, other than to observe that kids feel real sadness that stays in your brain for a really long time.

the zidane

yesterday, i flew back home to san diego. because of my gold status, i was graciously allowed to board with the first class members. i slipped into the red carpeted, purple velvet roped off line (not kidding) and tried to make myself invisible to the other non first class/non gold status passengers. They were looking at me with longing for they (i will never know why) also wished to board first and sit in fart air for 45 minutes as the rest of the plane filled up. *i* had my guitar with me so i wanted to make sure that i secured enough space for it early on. that's my excuse for boarding early.

i have to admit that i felt like a total poser. as everyone dropped off at rows 1-8, i continued on to row 27, seat b. i felt like a party crasher, except there was no food, no music, and no drinks. so, maybe i didn't feel like a party crasher, after all. i just felt like...a poser.

you know, it's weird waiting for the plane to fill up around you. you inadvertantly make eye contact with people you will never see again and make a small connection. people look down and smile at you, uncomfortable you, sitting in your seat as butts and bags brush your head. they are little, pursed smiles, but still, smiles that say "here we go again! WE'RE IN THIS TOGETHER!" or "50% of us will order Tomato Juice even tho we never order Tomato Juice outside of an airplane!" or "I smile at you now, but if i'm next to you, it's ARMREST DOWN!"

the middle aged chinese man in row 26A was struggling with his suitcase. i found myself strangly fixated on his success. i was urging him along in my head, "come on! come ooooon-uh! you can do it! push in that corner. oh no, it's the front zipper pocket...do you have a book in there? take the book out! TAKE IT OUT!" my hands were twitching, as if it was clutching an invisible joystick that was maneuvering the suitcase into the overhead compartment.

i nervously glance at the backlog of people who are growing more and more impatient as seconds tick by. all eyes are on him. i mop my brow in nervousness and my stomach feels tight. he glances down at me (probably bc he feels my death ray stare boring holes into the side of his head) and it's all i can do to restrain myself from flashing him an encouraging, toothy grin and give him the double thumbs up sign. instead, i blink away and pretend that there is nothing more fascinating than the runway control man with his giant headphones and mini light saber.

i see a flight attendant pushing her way through. but i want him to do it on his own. because i tho say there is no shame in a little help from your friends (break into beatles song here), there's something a tiiiiiny bit emasculating about a softly padded 50 year old woman named shirley being able to deftly push your suitcase in the compartment in 2 seconds when you, a presumably stronger man in his 40's , just spent the past 5 mintutes trying to so. then he did a marvelous move that i call "the zidane". he used his HEAD to successfuly push in his suitcase and i almost wept with joy.

i uttered a "yesssssss!" under my breath and did a mini version of the hockey goal fist pump that i learned from schuyler. i was so relieved! and so was the middle aged chinese man. he looked down at me and gave me a little pursed smile.

i am so frustrated that i can no longer say...

"SUCH AS" without thinking of:




















http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lj3iNxZ8Dww

What's in a (Korean American) Name?

There are only two demographics in the U.S. who have old lady names. Old ladies (duh) and Korean American women between the ages of 26 and 36. Names of people I personally know include: Irene Kim (me!), Eunice Jung, Grace Rhee, Eunice Park, Ethel Hong, Esther Lee, Susan Lee, Ingrid Lee, Deborah Lee.

My theory is that we were named after the actresses that ruled Hollywood around the time our parents immigrated to America. I'm talking about Grace Kelly, Ethel Merman, Susan Hayward, Deborah Kerr, Eunice, um… can't help you out with that one, Ingrid Bergman, Irene Dunn. I even know a Vivian Lee who may have been named after Vivian Leigh of Gone With the Wind fame.

I don't love my name. If I had a penny for everyone who said, "Irene? That's my great aunt's name!" I'd be rolling in the Abe Lincolns (which are far inferior to rolling in the Benjamins, but we're in a recession). When I volunteered at a retirement home in high school, old men would sing "Good Night, Irene", a song that reached the Billboard magazine Best Seller chart on June 30, 1950 and lasted 25 weeks on the chart, peaking at #1.

Then there's the issue of the Dexys Midnight Runners. You guys DO KNOW that it's actually "Come On EILEEN" not "Come On Irene", right? So stop swarming around me at weddings and at bar mitzvahs and at cheesy Murray Hill bars. Stop pointing at me and yelling "Dance! Dance! Dance!" Stop making me wiggle to a song that's not even about someone with my name. Sheesh.

I guess it could be worse. When I did some research for this blog, I came across a very popular name in the 1880's: DORCUS. And I laughed quietly to myself. DORCUS? Oh my.

creepiest things EVER

creepy things, not to be confused with scary things or gross things:

long leather black trench coats - CREEPY!!!
james blunt - ewwwwww
james blunt wearing a long leather black trench coat - omg just got the chills
chicken feet - cooked OR raw
(it's too obvious, but...james blunt eating chicken feet - cooked or raw)...
awkward winking - usually administered by a male

what else, guys?

tacos

My dear friend Heidi invited me to a gallery opening last night (College Blanchard Gallery) where I met several of her post crunchy, neo new york cool, transplated Seattle friends. I was talking to one dude, we'll call him, oh...Lincoln, about my latest research project with schuyler: tacos! When I told him that we were going to schlep up to the UWS to pay a visit to the fabled taco truck on 96th street, Lincoln told me to STOP.RIGHT.THERE because as long as I didn't blog about it, he would tell me about his favorite taco secret hovel on 4x and x0th (I am a woman of my word - I told him I *would* blog about it, but not reveal it's exact coordinates). When I asked him what the taco stand was called, he said "Watso Wingo". WATSO WINGO? Would you go to a taco stand called Watso Wingo?

what wild animal do you think salon writer neiwert and cnn's sanchez is talking about?

During a very intense workout on the treadmill (7 minutes total, 39 calories expended - YESSSS! i can eat the creme filling in an Oreo!), I read this (via closed captioning) on CNN:

NEIWERT: Well, that was -- of course, that was an individual lone wolf who was associated with the patriots, but, yes, they basically come from the same sort of ideological background. That's correct.

SANCHEZ: Are they dangerous?

NEIWERT: Potentially, mostly when they feel that they are being threatened. But, for the most part, they are a pretty benign organization as far as that goes.

Because I was gasping for air, slumped over my machine, and feeling extremely light headed, I (silly me) thought they were talking about a wild or rabid animal (I was thinking Moose, Elk, or glowy - red - eyed rabbit) but you know what they were really talking about? Sarah Palin and her connection to the Alaskan Independence Party.

http://transcripts.cnn.com/TRANSCRIPTS/0810/14/cnr.07.html

Scarier than a threatened glowy - red - eyed rabbit.

rudy huxtable was cute but...

she was definitely sporting an 8 year old mustache:

carton of irregular cat hats - i know you want them

Spotted on Craigslist San Diego. Who the HELL does this to their cat?

Carton Of Irregular Cat Hats

---

Date: 2008-02-07, 11:01AM PST


Hello. I have a big box of used cat and kitten hats that I have collected over the years for various occasions. As of recently my cat, Snowman, is no longer living and thus I am forced to get rid of these precious memories. I would not feel right asking money for them so I am offering the whole box for free. There are many styles from formal to cute and funny.

There is a variety of 14 different hats total. I just hope you and your pet can find as much joy in these hats as me and Snowman once did.

E-mail me if you are interested and I will give you my address where you can pick them up. I can also arrange for a free delivery if you are not too far away.

Thank you, Patty

signs

there are a lot of weird signs out there. i'm not talking about signs like crop circles or other paranormal signals that m. night shyamalan makes movies about so that you shit in your pants in fear. i'm talking about signs made by man himself.

"The Most Frustrating Sign" on view at the denver international airport:

"I'm a piece of paper. May I help you?"

MAY I HELP YOU? Is this some kind of a JOKE?










"The Most Ill Advised Emergency Plan Sign" also at denver international airport.

I don't know about you, but a bathroom is quite possibly the LAST place i would want to be during a tornado...










Lastly, the "Overly Specific Sign" as seen in the NY Subway.


"Lean on your best friend for the $50 he owes you. But don't lean on the subway car doors."

Isn't this sign strangely specific? It's as if the copywriter's best friend owes him $50 and he is either really really MAD and wants to tell everyone that his BEST FRIEND is not paying him back or he's just really passive aggressive.

I can think of a zillion things that make more sense than "Lean on your best friend for the $50 he owes you. But don't lean on subway car doors."

Like:

"Lean on your best friend." FULL STOP. none of this "for the $50 he owes you.
or
"Lean on your Pro Med Walking stick. But don't lean on the subway car doors."
or
"Lean towards Socialism when the current administration seems to be f-ing everything up. But don't lean on the subway car doors."

Sky Mall: More Non Solutions to Problems that Never Existed

Hello Readers. I know it's been, as Audris said, "Ten Years" since my last post. And I apologize. I will make more of an effort to prioritize Blogging above all else.

Since I am a little rusty, and I refuse to blog about the time a dirty gym sock was stuffed in my mouth (but if you catch me live, I'm sure with a little arm twisting that story will come right out), I fall back on old faithful: Sky Mall.

Check this New (!) product out: The "Stealth Secret Sound Amplifier":



















WHAT, pray tell, is "stealth" OR "secret" about this device?

The ad CLEARLY states that it measures 3 3/4"H x 3 1/2"W x 1 1/4D". Even if you're Michael Phelps (God bless him), there is no way that the Stealth Secret Sound Amplifier can be any LESS than 80% of your entire EAR.

Oh, what I wouldn't give to be a synapse in that woman's brain as that lecherous cad looms closer.

Second: "The Pizza Pro"!!!


Readers, can you help me think through this? I went over the hypothetical logistics of owning the Pizza Pro, and I just can't wrap my bird brain around it.

Step One: You cut a hole in the box. Oh wait, that's a different set of directions. Ok. Step One: you cut through the pizza pie.

Step Two: You pull the Pizza Pro away from the pie and you move it to the left 3 inches. Wait no. You move it to the RIGHT three inches if the spatula is affixed to the LEFT of the scissors. You move it to the LEFT if the spatula is .... Gosh darnit. What's wrong with an ordinary pizza cutter. And let's face it. When does pizza ever not come already cut into 8 slices? When you think you're Mario Batali, that's when! And if you're a 300 pound Italian celebra-chef, you probably shouldn't be eating pizza anyway.










(Mario straddling a chair. Wearing clogs. MUST. LOOK. AWAY. *Shudder*)

detention was my middle name

In elementary school, I was always in detention for STUPID THINGS. All detention meant was that I had to stay after class for an additional 15 minutes. It was okay because my mom was always 15 minutes late in picking me up so as I was walking out of detention for STUPID THINGS, a big red Cherokee Jeep with a tiny Asian lady (my oma!) with big permed hair and sunglasses would be peering over the steering wheel…waiting for me.

Example of STUPID THINGS:

I was in love with Donnie Corn. I don't know why I was in love with Donnie Corn because he had opaque white skin and orange hair. ORANGE. In fact, he looked like this:

Very appropriate that his name was Donnie Corn, now that I think about it. Donnie took advantage of my brains. Meaning, he loved to ask me questions when he didn't want to think for himself.

Donnie: Psst. Irene - how do you spell "cow"?

Irene: "um, REALLY?" (why do I have a crush on you, Donnie? why why why, you are so DUMB!) "CEE. OH. DOUBLEYOU. COW".

Donnie: Rad. Now, how do you spell "dog"?

Irene: leave me alone! I'm going to get in trouble. Ok fine, it's "DEE OH GEE. DOG".

Donnie: Ok, smartypants...how about RAT?

Irene: "S-M-A-R-T-Y-P-A-N-T-S"

Thing is - I wasn't being cheeky. I really thought Donnie was asking me how to spell smartypants and I was THRILLED that he had graduated to polysyllabic words!! I practically sang it to him. SMARTYPANTS!! LA LA LA!

TEACHER: Irene, I've already asked you once. SHUT YOUR TRAP. You're close to getting detention.

Irene: Sorry, Teacher. (sad Irene - I was always getting in trouble).

But Donnie was looking back at me expectantly and urgently. It nearly broke my heart. So I peeled a piece of masking tape that was holding my name card to the front of my desk and wrote, "R-A-T." Rat. I rolled it up into a little ball and flicked it off my desk towards Donnie.

Except.

It hit Teacher SQUARE IN THE MIDDLE OF THE EYES.

Teacher took the masking tape ball, unrolled it, and read out loud, "ARE.AY.TEE. RAT".

I had detention for 2 hours that day.

the rise and fall of: AC SLATER

Hunky Minority in "Saved By The Bell" (as AC Slater)

Slightly Washed Up Hunky Minority in "Saved By The Bell (The College Years)"

Celebrity Dancer in "Dancing With The Stars"

WIFE CHEATER
http://blog.vh1.com/2008-06-17/ladies-dont-date-mario-lopez/


Master of the Pelvic Thrusting Stink Eye Maneuver



I don't think he fall down farther...but I'm excited for his next move...

*sigh*

i'm confused

so....is it hot or "hot"?

in other words...



hot or NOT hot?

more airport hijinks

5:35 am is not a good time to make a Junior Varsity move.

On the morning of 5/9/08, on my way to Playa de Carmen, I stood in front of the United Airlines self check in kiosk and swiped my credit card. The following words flashed across my screen: “Your flight is actually on US Airways, Dumbass.”

Frustration!!! My instinct in situations such as this (any situation, really), is to turn to the nearest Co2 emitting mammal for solace and comfort. Unfortunately, the small boy standing to my left started to cry as I approached him with outstretched arms and a worried look in my eyes. I ran outside to catch the employee airport bus instead.

Airport buses are strangely similar worldwide, aren’t they? I think they must be manufactured by the same company the world over. It wouldn’t even surprise me one bit if the airport shuttles on flippin' MARS bounced to the same bussy rhythm, and had the same sticky upholstery (blue with yellow and orange lightening bolts).

By this time, low grade panic was pulsing through my body. I was going to be late. So…I asked the only other breathing being on the bus for help and comfort (obviously…). Enter cantankerous driver with Tourette's Syndrome.

Irene: Excuse me. Hi. Are we close to US Airways?
Driver: Grunt. Issalastah (translation: Grunt. It’s the last stop.)
Irene: Ok, thank you.
Driver: Oil fire! Oil fire! Tire fire! Tire fire! SKAAAAA! (translation…???? NO idea. None whatsoever.)

Interlude: Doo doo doo…Irene listens to some music to sooth nerves. Takes a Vicodin and does breathing exercises.

Driver: Grrr, Geta hera wa!! (translation: girl, get out here and walk!)

Sigh. It’s only 5:53 am and it’s already been a long day.

OMG: I just saw something to add to my airport observation list: People who pre-wear their neck pillows and walk around with them on BEFORE THEY ARE IN THE PLANE!!!

why is it that i STILL press "9" whenever i make a phone call from my parent's home?

i'm at home hanging out with my family. turns out that it's a good time to be away from work with layoffs hitting the financial markets pretty hard.

it's a bad habit of mine, but i checked my blackberry during lunch with my mom yesterday.

me: wow. looks like there are going to be a lot of layoffs on wall street this week. even at lehmans.
mom: whaaaaaa? neimans? who's going to make sure their yearly sale happens?

it's so nice to be home.

Would you immediately chop off your arm or take your chances?

Something unfortunate happened to me the other day.

A co-worker walked over to my desk and wanted to talk to me about his upcoming wedding. I swiveled around in my twirly chair to face him. He was standing up (looking down at me), I was sitting down (looking up at him). Ok, everyone have a visual?

Right then and there, God pressed the "slow mo" button on life. A foamy chunk of spittle gracefully arced out of my co-worker's mouth and headed straight to my face. Despite my frantic ducking and dodging, there was no escaping this heat seeking missle. It implanted itself in the worst possible place EVER: IN.MY.EYE.

I immediately slapped both hands over my left eye and exclaimed, "YOU SPIT IN MY EYE!!" *sound of chuckles across the trading floor*

OK, NORMAL.

THEN, I said, "Do you have any diseases?" *sound of awkward silence across the trading floor*

NORMAL???

Ok, ok, so I know I'm a bit of a hypochondriac. But I think it's because I grew up in the 80's where my greatest fear was to contract a blood borne disease. Like that nurse who accidentally dropped test tubes of blood plateles on her face and got AIDS. Or the story where a kid was stuck in the arm with a dirty syringe by a maniacal crazy person and died. I replayed this scene many times over and over in my head. If this happened to me, would immediately chop off my arm or take my chances?

the great questions of 2008, YTD

I have a little black book that I carry with me at all times. It’s my life in calendar format. The last 10 pages are dedicated to ‘Great Questions of 2008”. These are stumpers that come up during my conversations with friends. See how many you get right! Take the Challenge. Answers follow the questions.

1. What do Water Chestnuts look like in its natural form? Like normal chestnuts?
2. Are green peas the inside of green beans?
3. Is Bob Dole’s hand REAL or FAKE?
4. Did African American men or Women get the vote first (technically)?
5. Are coffee beans red?
6. What are macaroons exactly?
7. Do Asians metabolize alcohol faster?
8. How any cabs are there in Manhattan?
9. Irene, why is salt water taffy so special?
10. How do dogs lap water?
11. What is the difference between liquor and liqueur?
12. What do you call people who live in Myanmar, formerly Burma?
13. Is there a test to see if a pilot passes out when flying an F16?
14. Are Snapple facts true?
15. Snapple Fact: Seals sleep in 90 second increments
16. Snapple Fact: Beavers was once the size of bears (!!!! What happened????)
17. What is the origins of SARS?
18. What is Trazodone?
19. What is the Mongolian Blue Mark? And does Irene have it?
20. Is “Knightrider” Michael’s last name?
21. Can dogs be autistic?
22. Is Jon Stewart 5’2”?

Answers:

1. In fact, yes. Yes they do.
2. No silly!
3. Real, but only 1.5 fingers of his right hand work
4. African American Men
5. The coffee tree produces red or purple fruits (drupes). DRUPES!! Hooray for drupes!
6. Macaroons are cookies or confections. The macaroon is a close relative of of the macaroni and the Macarena. JUST KIDDING! Can be made of almonds, coconut, hazelnuts.
7. not faster, just differently.
8. 13,000. still not sure if this answer is correct.
9. Friends, it’s special for so many reasons. But interestingly enough, there is no clear connection between “salt water” and the“taffy” it precedes apart from the fact that it contains both salt, and water. (duh)
10. OMG! They lap it with the tongue scooping it pointing downwards! "A dog's tongue curls down and back (NOT UP) in a sort of fishhook shape and he literally pulls the water up and it falls into the floor of his mouth," explains Stan Coren, professor of psychology at the University of British Columbia and author of "How Dogs Think."
11. A liqueur is a sweet alcoholic beverage, often flavored with fruits, herbs, spices, flowers, seeds, roots, plants, barks, and sometimes cream. Liqueur = Liquor
12. Burmese even tho their country is now called Myanmar.
13. I DON”T KNOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! But one can pass out bc the G force is so great when doing the loop de loop in an F16.
14. Yes. But no one believes me
15. it’s true.
16. also true!
17. From eating civit cats: A team of researchers from China and Hong Kong has found a genetic link between SARS in civet cats and humans, thus the disease seems to have been transmitted across species.***OR***From bats: SARS may have originated in wild bats in China, an international team of scientists report this week in Science.
18. a psychoactive compound with sedative, anxiolytic, and antidepressant properties.
19. Mongolian spots are blue, bluish-gray, bluish-green or blue-black flat skin markings that appear at birth or shortly thereafter during the infantile age ON THEIR BUMS. Common among Asian, East Indian, and African races, but rare among Caucasian and other races. I am fairly certain i still have mine or else it’s a bruise that won’t go away.
20. Knight
21. Yes. Tho not clinically diagnosed as autistic, dogs can have autistic symptoms
22. No. 5’7” seems to be the most common answer out there.

SNAPPLE FACT: You are smarter for having read this entry.

george michael has chiclets for teeth!

it's just wrong. someone needs to inform him that his teeth look like Chiclets.

self strangulation

In 1974, Dr. Henry Heimlich published findings on what was to become the Heimlich Maneuver. A week later, the first choking victim was saved by the method. In 1978, New York City passed a law requiring that every establishment, regardless of size or design, “where food is sold and space is designated specifically as eating areas shall have posted in a conspicuous place, easily accessible to all employees and customers, a sign graphically depicting the Heimlich Maneuver or a comparable technique instructing on how to dislodge food from a choking person.” The bill was passed unanimously by the City Council in 1978 (five days before Christmas and its feasts.)

http://www.backspace.com/notes/2002/08/16/x.html



Take a closer look at this poster:

...doesn't it look like...she's CHOKING HERSELF?

I can just see this scenario play out at The Spotted Pig:


Asian Lady: "That's it!" (throws napkin down) "I just can't take it anymore!" (choking noises)
White Lady: Lady! Hey lady! Chill out! You're going to be ok! You have so much to live for!" (taking her tenderly from behind) ... i love you...
Asian Lady: "aaahhhhhghhghhghahgghhgurglegurgle"

Is this poster a "how to" for the Heimlich or is it really an expertly disguised PSA for the Suicide Hotline?

i know it's a kid's thing, but i swear someone on my floor has this

CROUP (http://www.kidshealth.org/parent/infections/bacterial_viral/croup.html)

Signs and Symptoms

Croup is characterized by a loud cough that may sound like the barking of a seal and may be accompanied by fast or difficult breathing and sometimes a grunting noise or wheezing while breathing.

Flying Sucks

I spend a lot of time in airports. Enough to say that they should be renamed Sinkholes of Productivity or Bastions of Boredom. I’ve clocked in at least 10 dog years at airports and I want to take this time lay out my observations for you. The first two observations have been blogged about (ad nauseum) in previous posts:

Observation #1: “Man and his Hidden love of Tomato Juice when aboard an aircraft”.
Observation #2: “SkyMall is Great!!!”

The next two observations are new:
Observation #3: “The Man and the Teeny Tiny Rolling Backpacks. Why?”
Observation #4: “The Onboarding Process as the Ultimate Proxy for the Hierarchy of Man and Display of Pomposity."

I’d like to focus on #4. I have never understood the rush to get into an airplane. This isn’t the Chinatown bus, everyone. We all have assigned seats. What’s the upside to getting on the plane FASTER? An extra 20 minutes to marinate in stale airplane air while you Observe #5: The Man and his difficulty in putting small suitcases wheels first into the Overhead Bin? Sign me up!

Airlines have stratified the onboarding process to a startling degree. And this stratification wafts an “I’m better than you” fragrance throughout waiting line. As the first class are invited to board the plane first, people are watching JEALOUSLY as they are given the dubious honor of sitting in fart air before the rest of their airplane peers. And I swear airlines are making up more and more categories with each passing day. Does this sound familiar? “We’d like to invite all first class passengers to board at this time. After our first class cabins have been seated, we’d like to invite all Platinum members and Group 1 to board at this time. After Platinum members and Group 1, we would like to invite Diamond members in the following order: Brilliant Cut, Princess Cut, and dead last, because you are ugly: Pear Shaped Cut. Following ALL Diamond members, we would like to invite the Titanium Infused Onyx class along with Groups 2,3,4,5,6. Lastly, we begrudgingly invite the Poopy Pants class to get on the plane.”

Even if my points or my company has paid for me to sit in First Class, I always join the Poopy Pants class and walk on the plane dead last. And if I bought my ticket on Travelocity and my seat is in 2987 B (middle seat, last row), must everyone make me feel like Rosa Parks?

a new meaning to cabbage patch

look what my roommate (aka honey) found!

running out of luck

i came back from Chicago today, on UA 682. it was literally the only flight not canceled or delayed out of ORD to LGA (see picture). as i stared at the departure board in disbelief, i thought to myself, “great, i totally just used up all of my luck for the rest of the week.”

i wasn’t very surprised, then, to find myself wedged between the window and the belly of a very large man from oregon. before i even had a chance to give him a pursed, but sincere, smile of acknowledgment, he asked if he could leave the armrest up so as not to cut into his excess baggage. well, he didn’t use those words exactly, but it was something like that.

i’m the first to admit that at times i may appear to be fickle. boyfriends, dear friends, family, and wait staff have all told me that. but i swear there is, to use a tired cliché, a method to my madness.

example of a "method":

at any given day, i will or will not talk to the person seated next to me on a plane if:

1. said person orders tomato juice – no talk
2. said person orders liquor on a morning flight – no talk
3. said person smells – no talk (too busy breathing through my mouth)
4. said person is a weathered female who looks like she has a good story to tell – yes talk
5. said person is hot – yes talk
6. said person is reading a book that i have read – yes talk, but usually only to say “i read that book!”, then no talk.
7. said person is drinking Heineken with shots of Jack irrespective of time of day – no talk

my fellow passenger fell into category #7. i immediately put on my headphones and tried to lose myself in Depeche Mode.

it didn’t work. he (and i am not kidding you), removed my right ear bud and said:

man: do you live in new york?

irene: yes

man: so how far is my hotel from laguardia airport?

irene: (shrug)

man: i’m staying at the crown plaza times square

irene: maybe 30 minutes by cab

man: but how many miles?

irene: no idea. i don’t drive. i have a bad sense of direction.

man: why don’t you drive?

irene: do you mind if i put my headphones back on?

***two songs worth of time elapses***

man: do you know if i can buy hats and “i love new york” t- shirts near my hotel?

irene: yes, you are in times square.

man: so…i’m close?

irene: you are not only close, you are IN times square. crown plaza TIMES SQUARE.

man: so, then…close.

irene: (in my head) i am so done with you.

i put on my head phones and flipped through skymall. even skymall couldn’t cheer me up.

the last ten minutes of my flight was him staring out the window. unfortunately, my head was in the way and he punished it by staring into the canal of my right ear. then we did the head dance, i.e. i moved back to give him a better view just as he moved back right as i moved forward because he moved back right as he moved forward because he moved back. you get the picture. people do that dance on the street sometimes. we did that same dance, only with our heads and on an airplane. let me tell you, it's a lot funnier on the street. he was annoyed, evidenced by his deep sighs and fidgeting. i almost turned to him and said, “i’m extremely sorry that my head isn’t one big piece of plexiglass.” but i didn’t, and for that, i am very very proud of myself.

i can’t wait for my luck to replenish itself next week.

real blog coming soon...but first...

i know i know - i have been a bit remiss in my blogging. but things have been busy. and anyway, i never wanted this site to be a "diary", so i'll spare you all the banal details of why my life has been so busy. what i really came here for is to say:

i don't know why they do it, but asian parents put the article "the" in front of everything. for example (and these are real examples):

"did you get my forward about the antarctica?"
"do you live on the street with the gays?" (sorry sorry, nothing malicious meant by this...that's just what happens)
"let's go shopping at the nordstroms!"

...etc. etc. does anyone know why? i don't. but it's cute. and it makes me laugh.

pavlov's dog

i like to change up my ring tone every so often. for a long time, it went like this: "beep boop BOO doop" also known as the Counter Terrorist Unit/Jack Bauer/24-the show ring tone. these days, it just goes: boop. boop. boop. boop.

it's a nice, clean sound. i just didn't want anything that made me feel like i was sipping pina coladas in a hammock (someone's ring tone at work does this to me - i almost feel like harry belafonte is about to pop his happy head out from behind a computer terminal and hand me a banana to tally whenever it rings).

aaanyway, i digress. the other day, i was in bed, all snuggly and excited to finish off my book when i heard "boop. boop. boop. boop." i LEAPED out of bed and literally SPRINTED to get my phone. i slipped on the newly pledged floor (why does my cleaning person DO this? who puts pledge on the floor? ok fine, i did, but i was in college and i didn't know any better) and slid right into my dining table.

and my phone wasn't even booping!! i had left the TV on. the booping culprit was the scale on "the biggest loser". its boops are at the same pitch and intervals as my phone's boops.

how is it that i have become so conditioned to running after my phone when i hear it beep?

i'm pavlov AND his dog.

let's play M.A.S.H.

"MASH" stands for Mansion, Apartment, Shack, House. it's a game that i used to play in grade school. the point of it was to "predict" your future in neat categories: your future husband, your future car, your future car color, your future job, your future husband's future job, your future honeymoon location, your future city of residence, etc etc...

in each category, you and your MASH partner come up with 4 choices. and one of them has to be perfectly horrendous. for example, under "car", popular choices are: mercedes, BMW, corvette, and *gasp* a YUGO!! or under "husband": carlos, donald, jason, *omg* MR. ROGERS! then through a slightly inaccurate process of elimination, you come up with "your future".

it's a real hoot. except when you find out that in your future life, you're a bum, living in a shack with your husband Big Bird who drives a multicolored tricycle to his job as a zebra stripe painter to support you and 1000 kids who are growing up in the bad part of detroit.

well, i played MASH over instant messenger with my friend (who wanted to remain anonymous) today.

MASH friend: can we play MASH please?
MASH friend: i'll do your fortune
irenejkim77: yes.
MASH friend: no shack, i know, don’t worry

*doo doo doo...mash interlude*

MASH friend: ok
MASH friend: let me know when you're ready
irenejkim77: yay! ready!
MASH friend: so, as you're cruising down the streets in your RED VOLVO STATION WAGON ....
irenejkim77: NICE
MASH friend: you get all nostalgic, as the palm trees in california remind you of your dope honeymoon in bora bora!
irenejkim77: woo hoo!!
MASH friend: however, the nostalgia quickly fades
MASH friend: BECAUSE
MASH friend: you miss your husband who is off being an ambassador
MASH friend: and saving the world
MASH friend: you look in the backseat of your car at your TWO GORGEOUS KIDS
irenejkim77: (thank god not 100 like in 5th grade)
MASH friend: who look just like your husband and quickly you're back to nostalgia
irenejkim77: ew...
irenejkim77: who is my hubby?
MASH friend: (WAIT)
MASH friend: as you pull into your LUXURY APARTMENT
irenejkim77: oooh
MASH friend: you get a postcard from your husband
MASH friend: which reads ....
MASH friend: "you're too beautiful to work! i'm glad you decided to become a real housewife from orange county*!"
MASH friend: "love always, your husband:
MASH friend: (deleted for blogging purposes)

yippee. i can’t wait.

*only the best show in the world: http://www.bravotv.com/Real_Housewives_2

celebrity animal look a like

i have this talent that oft goes unnoticed. i have the ability to pair celebrities with their animal lookalike.

MATT LAUER...


...looks like a GERMAN SHEPHERD! (more specifically, the german shep from "all dogs go to heaven")




AL GORE...


...looks like a COBRA!!!



SURI CRUISE (so adorable)...



...looks like a precious moments (http://www.preciousmoments.com/) doll!



i know a precious moments doll is not an animal, but i wanted to make the comparision anyway since the resemblance is so striking.

what's your number?

my elementary school had a tire swing. i never understood why tire swings were so popular. the ratio of “fun to comfort” was way off for my liking. monkey bars were fun. yes, they were slightly uncomfortable and i often walked away with pole burns on the back of my knees or calloused hands. but fun enough so that i could overlook these minor discomforts. tire swings were not fun. they were, in fact, lame. they didn’t hang flat, if you know what i mean. the chains were affixed so that the tire hung in the air like this: “O”. i would teeter uncomfortably on top of a mass of thickly treaded vulcanized rubber and try to ignore the wedgie that was quickly forming.

my red headed, freckled elementary school crush asked me if i wanted to ride the tires with him one day. “Ok, but they are not fun, just so you know”. the things i did for my crush! i grabbed the chains and hoisted myself up. i was barely on the tire when the chains gave way and i fell face first into the sand. i hit my teeth hard on something on the way down and i also felt a sharp pain in my knee.

i was FURIOUS at my red headed, freckled crush. “the edges of my teeth feel like sandpaper. oh, and by the way, i HATE YOU for making me do this. you’re not my fake boyfriend anymore!”

i angrily stamped my foot in the playground sand. i was punishing the ground and i was punishing my crush. then he said very sadly, “irene, you’re bleeding”. i could tell he felt really bad and i was GLAD. i had chipped teeth AND i was bleeding!! i looked down at my leg. there was a strangely shaped wound on the top of my left knee cap. i suspect that as the sharp chain whipsawed itself away from the tire, it touched upon my leg. the wound was deep, small, and extremely precise. a rivulet of blood was zig zagging its way down my leg and it threatened to stain my socks (socks, plural, as in two socks on one foot. it was 1983 and doubling up color coordinating socks was en vogue.).

as it turned out, my fake love affair with my red haired, freckled crush carried on well into the 8th grade when he left me for a beautiful filipino girl named lorna. i forgave him for almost killing me because he so tenderly put a bandaid on my knee that day. but mostly, i forgave him because the bloodstain that slowly formed on the bandaid was heart-shaped (i immediately put this bandaid in my picture album, see below. i thought it was cool).



last month, i sat next to a numerologist on an airplane ride from dallas to san francisco. he told me that everyone has his or her own “number”. most people don’t know what their number is because they are not looking for it. but this number will show up more often in their lives than any other number. i told him, “i already know what my number is but i’m too embarrassed to tell you…ok fine, i’ll tell you. My number is 420.” Yes, the numerical icon of cannabis tokers everywhere. (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/420_(cannabis_culture))

i don't know why, but my special number is 420. i see it all the time. whenever it’s 4:20 pm, i just happen to glance down at my digital casio. When i pay for a taxi, my fare often is $4.20. my hotel room in Chicago was room 420. the building across from my Montreal hotel room was 420 Sherbrooke Street West. my favorite New Order song is 4 minutes 20 seconds long. my mom’s car had a cracked windshield over Christmas. the replacement car the dealership gave us was an E420.

after we bonded over having found and realized our special number, i felt close enough to him to confide in him that that i also have a special shape. i see hearts. like the heart shaped blood stain and my heart shaped scar. and the heart shaped cloud i saw this morning and the heart shaped clump of algae in bodrum, turkey (picture above). on christmas day, as i was sitting in church, i saw a heart shaped pattern in the tweed holiday sweater in front of me. when i looked up, i saw heart shaped tessellations on the ceiling.

i turned my gypsy numerologist (who wore sunglasses inside the plane and had a fake mole tattooed above his lip) and looked at him intensely. i grabbed his forearm i asked him in earnest, “do you have a special shape?” he looked at me – the NUMEROLOGIST FROM DALLAS WHO JUDGES THE STATE FAIR SPAM COMPETITION WITH THE FAKE MOLE TATTOO – looked at me like i was some kind of crazy.

so, what’s your number? what’s your shape?


EPILOGUE - my friend james is visiting nyc from LA. we’re going to have dinner. i picked a place. i went on eater.com and just picked one that sounded good. we’re going to “the smith”. their phone number? 212 420 – 6500.

Ridiculous.

smom

it's december 2007 and i’m home for the holidays. this means that in a seven day period, i will experience more laughter, frustration, boredom, excitement, arguments and love than new york city can offer me in an entire year.

sometimes it’s too much. like my heart is being squeezed.

when i’m at home, i’m reminded of a concept that learned in my first year in college: the principles of ego-centric behavior. not to be confused with egotism, egocentrism is basically is when one thinks everyone else sees what he/she sees or thinks what he/she thinks. i'm often faulty of egocentrism. i think it runs in the family.

yesterday evening my mom and i were hanging out at home. we had a late lunch at our favorite hangout (fashion valley) so we had christmas cookies and tangerines for dinner. i was on the computer (on facebook, if you must know) when i heard my mom say, “uh muh nah! irene illyuh wah! national lampoon's christmas vacation is on! nuh moo nuh moo che me suh!” (translation: oh my goodness! irene come here! national lampoon's christmas vacation is on! it’s so so fun!”).

i looked over at my mom – she was in front of the tv on our electric heating pad (in many korean families, couches are rarely used. although we have couches, we only use them when company is here. during family time, we all pile on a souped up electric heating pad and cover ourselves quilts. it’s fun. i think erin – my childhood bff – is the only person who has actually been in there with the entire kim clan. if you ever have an offer to do so, consider it a huge honor. it means you’re family). my mom was propped up and peering over her shoulder at me. she had a huge smile on her face and patted the area next to her invitingly. it was really adorable.

“ok ok mommy. hold on. i’m IM-ing david”, i said. david is my younger cousin.

“david, i have to go – my mom wants me to watch national lampoon with her”
“omg. doesn’t that get raunchy at times?”
“idk. anyway, my mom will just cover up my eyes and we’ll both pretend it never happened.”

“irene hurry up before the house lighting scene is over! nuh moo nuh moo che mee suh!” my mom more urgently this time.

i scooted next to my mom on the electric pad and watched ten minutes of painful slapstick comedy. i really didn’t get what was so funny. my mind was wandering. juliette lewis is in this movie? i didn’t know that. this is ridiculous. there's no way chevy chase's nose is not broken. his wife in the movie is really pretty. the grandma looks really familiar…who is she? mom would know. my mom has the most impressive arsenal of classic movies and pop culture knowledge in her head. she can tell you how many movies ginger rogers and fred astair starred in, she can tell you who dudley moore is married to, she can tell you where anthony bourdain is now and when his new book is coming out.

“oma? who plays the grandma in this movie?”
“diane lane”
“diane lane??? come on!”
“smom”
“what? diane lane smom? what’s that? oh. diane lane’s MOM.”
“you know what i mean”

THIS is what i mean about egocentrism. like, everytime my mom calls my brother “irene”. when i come running over and she looks at me like, what are you doing here? i want to talk to your brother. then i’ll explain why i am standing in front of her and she’ll say, “well, you know what i mean.”

it’s funny and frustrating at the same time. but as i get older, it’s mostly just funny because i know that in her head she's saying what she means. it's just that it gets a little lost in translation.

but making up your own words and attaching your own meaning to them can be very embarrassing.

the whole family was having thanksgiving dinner at my cousin’s house one year. let's see...i was still in college so i’m thinking that it was in the late 1990’s. we were catching up in the kitchen when my aunt came running over us holding out the shiny thing that the toilet roll hangs off of. “this keeps falling off of the wall! can you screw it back in?” she asked.
my cousin and i both looked at her with a “do i look like bob vila?” expression on our faces so she said exasperatedly, “ah rra suh (translation: got it). i’ll give it to your younger brother. he’s very good at screwing.”

i whipped my head over to look at my cousin in horror. his head was on the counter in the crook of his arm. i had no where to look but down. i furrowed my brows and bit my lip as i thought hard about what i should do diffuse this awkward situation. i looked up and slapped my hand on the kitchen counter. i could NOT allow my auntie to go around saying such things!

“sumo?” (sumo means your father’s brother’s wife. emo means your mother’s sister. komo means your father’s sister. three different words for "aunt") “what you just said does not mean what you think it means.”
“what, screwing? what does it mean?”
“it means...uh, it means that…*SHITE! how was i going to get myself out of this one?* "it means that you drink too much.”
“uh muh nah!” she exclaimed. her fingers fluttered around her mouth in horror.

i looked over to my cousin. his head was still on the counter, in the crook of his arm. i couldn’t tell if he was laughing or just didn’t want to deal with the situation at hand.

ah, home. being here makes me feel strange sometimes. i become a kid again. and that can be frustrating. but also liberating. it’s the only place where i allow myself to leave the house looking the way i do. oh, don’t get me wrong, i wear normal clothes. it’s what’s on my head that’s strange. my mother insists i wear a visor with a 14 inch brim on sunny days (i live in san diego, so that's every day). i look like jennifer beals, the welder, not the flashdancer. but she promises that when i'm her age, i will be beautiful. just like diane lane's smom.

mushy foods

i love mushy foods. baby food, over boiled carrots, the noodles at the bottom of your chicken soup. throw a matzoh ball at me and i'll love you forever.

also, i eat spicy oatmeal.

i take oatmeal, sprinkle it with salted, toasted pumpkin seeds, and then put a dab of hot sauce on it. and then i eat it.

ziva: ummmmmmmmmmm
ziva: how do i say this politely???
ziva: YOU'RE A FREAK
ziva: OATMEAL WITH HOT SAUCE!?
irenejkim77: ok listen.
ziva: (this better be good)
irenejkim77: how is spicy oatmeal different than savory polenta? or salty grits?
irenejkim77: or cheesy risotto? or hot couscous?
irenejkim77: every nation has a savory mushy dish.
irenejkim77: see??????
ziva: hmmm you have a point ....
irenejkim77: thank you.

guess the closed captioning!

A few weeks ago I was in Chicago on a business trip. There are exactly three reasons why I HEART Chicago. (1) the toilets at O'Hare airport have SaniSeat (http://www.saniseat.com/). What is SaniSeat? Only the greatest invention dedicated to the prevention and eradication of feces and urine borne diseases. (2) Chicago’s relative lack of edgy fashion sense means that I can find good stuff in the Sale section of Urban Outfitters (yes, I am 30 years old and I still shop at UO). (3) Ummmmmmm. Oh, did I say I had THREE reasons? I actually meant two. The Saniseat counts for a lot, though.

After a day of meetings, (I stayed at the Drake Hotel where they charge you $10 to USE THE GYM. Don't stay there) I was ready to go to for a run on an artificially monitored and perfectly flat surface, aka a treadmill. And I was simply DELIGHTED to see that my workout coincided with the best of Celebrity TV Journalism available: Showbiz Tonight.

My 45 minute run never flew by faster.

It wasn’t the celebrity va-jay jay flashing contest that kept my mind off of the mind normally mind-numbingly boring run, it wasn’t the break up of Terry and Linda Hogan (I predict that it’s a publicity stunt; they’ll be back together soon), it wasn’t even commentary on J-Lo and her shopping spree for baby clothes. It was the CLOSED CAPTIONING that kept me in stitches. Ok, so for Live Programming such as Showbiz Tonight (p.s. I can’t say “such as” without thinking of Miss Teen South Carolina. And if you don't know what I'm talking about, you're living in a hole) the soundtrack is transcribed by an operator using a stenotype or a stenomask. The phonetic output is instantly translated into text. INSTANTLY. Why is this important? Because this means that a *lot* of mistakes occur.

Let's play a game! Guess the Closed Captioning:

What I Read:
HELL, I'm a Hamster, broadcasting tights and VERY TIGHT from New York City.
Hi dear, everyone. I'm Broke and Son, coming twight from Hollywood! And TWIGHT, weave got opera with fries concessions-- having enough AIR under her men decal crisis. But can OPERA reeling do anything rung? THAT's coming oop!

What Was Said:
HAMMER: Hello, I`m A.J. Hammer, broadcasting tonight and EVERY NIGHT from New York City.
ANDERSON: Hi there, everyone, I`m Brooke Anderson, coming to you tonight from Hollywood. And TONIGHT, we`ve got Oprah Winfrey`s confessions -- having an affair, her medical crisis. But can OPRAH really do anything wrong? THAT’S coming up!

What I Read:
Well, come back to Showbz TIGHT, Tee Vee's most pro vacuum est internment new show. I'm Brook Anderson and Hollywood. Hay, looks like we'll get some may soon be working on a new phelgm, he has made a rare pub lick peer ancela at the cream EAR of "Marrya Gang Stir", starring his end, Russl Crow and then zellington. Showbz TIGHT asked well when he'd be doing mother movie and he said, quote "PRRRRRETTY
SPOON!!"

What Was Said:
ANDERSON: Welcome back to SHOWBIZ TONIGHT, TV`s most provocative entertainment news show. I`m Brooke Anderson in Hollywood. Hey, it looks like Mel Gibson may soon be working on a new film, he has made a rare public appearance last night at the premiere of "American Gangster," starring his friend, Russell Crowe and Denzel Washington. SHOWBIZ TONIGHT asked Mel when he`d be doing another movie and he said, quote, "PRETTY SOON."

And I am *pretty sure* that the only time I laughed harder in the gym was the time my trainer's spandex split as he was showing me how to do lunges and his bum squirted out of his unitard like jelly out of an overstuffed donut.

I was waiting in line to check in at a hotel the other day when I saw these shoes dangling off of a man's backpack:



I surreptitiously snapped a picture of it (i.e. I fake-yawned and stretched my hand towards the shoes while innocently scratching my head so as not to attract attention to my actions). These beige, suede shoes looked like something a large elf would wear. Or that they had the ability to expel poison darts and had sharp blades hidden in the toe area.

I had well behaving feet. They are a nice size (size 6) and the toes line up all in a row like russian dolls. This may seem obvious, but not all toes do that. sometimes, the second toe is bigger than the first toe. I do not think this is a sign of leadership as some people might tell you. in fact, i believe it is just a way to make one feel better about the fact that ones toes are out of order. it's like saying it's good luck when it rains on your wedding day. no one really wants to have toes out of order, just like no one *really* wants rain on their wedding day. clearly, it's not the end of the world...but one would just rather not.

Other than a nail on the toe that cried "wee wee wee all the way home"(*) all foot parts are present (i think my dad stepped on the little toe a long time ago and popped the nail off. It never fully grew back).

So why am I writing all of this? Because I have BUNIONS and i am just coming to terms with it.

Bunions are:

"a sometimes painful structural deformity of the bones and the joint between the foot and big toe." Bunions are often caused by by wearing shoes that are not the natural shape of one's feet, i.e. 99.999999% of women's shoes. Wiki's definition of the bunion goes on in greater detail, but is filled with words like "valgus", "sac", and "deformity" but my gag reflex kicked in so I stopped reading.

My second appointment with my podiatrist is this Friday. it is upsetting to me that my feet are suffering so much. and it is upsetting to me that Giant Elf Shoes are deemed to be bunion-worthy.


*a childhood game my mom and i used to play. it's very simple. mom wiggles each toe, starting with the biggest toe and sings "this little piggy went to the market, this little piggy stayed at home! this little piggy had roooooast beef, and this little piggy had none. so THIS little piggy cried wee wee wee allllll the waaaaay home!"

575

masaoka made
small words say big things and made
big words disappear

you call them rubbers, i call them something else, but definitely NOT rubbers

last friday, my coworker visited the ny office. he lives in hong kong and like many hong kong residents, he throws around the word “honky” with the greatest of ease. mind you, he wasn’t using the word “honky” to mean the pejorative racial slur for people of european descent. instead, he was using the word “honky” to mean anything from the hong kong currency, to hong kong itself, to the people of hong kong. but that didn't matter. it was still embarrassing because everyone around us was collectively bristling each time he screamed “honky” across the trading floor.

i, too, have been in this situation. for example, when i moved to the east coast, i quickly learned that east coasters don’t use the word “thong” when referring to flip flops (i.e. “hey, hold on, let me put on my plastic thongs on before we go to the beach”). another example: the british say “pants” when they mean underwear, underoos, boxers. and let's throw in thongs (of the undergarment variety) just to make things more complicated. when i was a visiting student at oxford, i actually said to my friend “i went to miss Selfridges today and found the most amazing pair of velvet paisley pants that i want to wear to the party tonight…what else am i going to wear with them? probably just a t shirt and heels." REEAAAAAL classy. oh, yeah, and let's not forget the time i told someone that her boyfriend was seen at a black tie event wearing a tux accompanied by a "nice vest and bow tie". how was i supposed to know that in the UK, a “vest” means “tank top”? that’s right, i had just told my friend that her boyfriend went a fancy schmancy ball dressed up as a Chippendale stripper.

all this just means that one has to constantly adapt to the local vernacular. sure, i grew up calling my athletic shoes “tennies”, but now i call them "sneakers" and when i was in england, i called them "trainers". so if *i* make the effort to conform, so should other people.

i was 22 years old when i got my first corporate job at a big consulting firm. i was nervous, unsure, and scared of anyone whose billing rate was higher than mine (which was basically EVERYONE, including joe, our forlorn mail sorter). i knew i’d be in for many new experiences, but never did i think this scene would unfold:

project partner: well good morning Irene! you’re here bright and early!
Irene: (nervously) heh heh. yeah. heh.
project partner: it’s really terrible weather out there with the snow and sleet. did you drive here ok?
Irene: actually, i spun out of control in the bright green, tin can mustang that hertz hands out like stale candy. i almost killed someone on the way to work, but the car stopped spinning after 4 rotations and so i’m -
project partner: well, that’s fantastic! now, let’s get down to business.
Irene: oh ok – here’s the powerpoint deck that i worked ---
project partner: but FIRST (reaching down)let me just whip off my rubbers…
Irene: (covering eyes) AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
project partner: (clearly perplexed) what is WRONG with you?

important distinction: for dorky men over the age of 50, “rubbers” mean small plastic shoes that stretch over your fancy tasseled Florsheims. for people UNDER 50, “rubbers” mean something completely different.

And in England, “rubbers” means erasers.

PS: look what i found on wiki! “Prior to using rubber, white bread (without crust) was used to erase the mark of graphite pencil and charcoal.” i LOVE wikipedia almost as much as i love Suri Cruise. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eraser

please be good

a few months ago, i wrote a story called “introducing trouble.” if you remember, that’s what my parents called me. it seemed that wherever i went, mischievous drama nipped at my heels.

i have a hazy memory of huddling under a sink cabinet with a Handi-snak clutched in my hand, wondering how long i could survive on 4 crackers and a one square of spreadable, non perishable cheese. if i had to, i would also digest the red plastic stick. the damn S pipe under the sink was scratching my cheek. Everything was a little damp. and i had no bottoms on.

every Sunday my family went to church. my parents woke us up by blasting classical music through our intercom system and singing in a then annoying, now cute way, “Good morning Children!”. my mood when i woke up was wholly dependant on what dream they were interrupting. if they yanked me out of the tracks of a shadowy monster that was about to eat me, i ran downstairs grateful and smiley. i still haven’t forgiven them, however, for interrupting the BEST DREAM EVER. i was dreaming that i had the ability to fly by scissoring my legs back and forth. as i was flying through the rafters of an old medieval church, i turned to grin at my flying partner who was, surprise! the dashing fox from Disney’s Robin Hood.




I had the biggest crush on him, and i have to admit, i still kind of do. when the classical music hit my ears and gently pulled me out of sleep, i remember tossing and turning, squinting my eyes shut and trying to reclaim the dream, but the moment was lost. bye bye Robin Hood. i love you so much. will you be my boyfriend even tho you are a cartoon fox?

my mom dressed me until i was about 6 years old. the Monday after this particular Sunday was the last day she even tried. i was a particularly snazzy dresser, if not an incredibly opinionated one. i liked to wear clothes that made me feel FUN! and HAPPY! and PUNKY! and BREWSTERY!

enter grey wool skirt.

when my mom presented this skirt to me with great flourish, i fingered it’s grey wooliness and immediately thought “please sir, can i have some more?” i probably had a far away look in my eyes as i transported myself to center stage in the starring role of my school’s production of Oliver Twist. this drab, scratchy skirt would be perf!! My oma, on the other, hand, was thinking “Madeline in London” (author Ludwig Bemelmans wrote “Madeline in London” in 1961. It is part of a children book series where a little French girl romped around the world wearing a ridiculous hat).

anyway, when i saw that my mother intended to dress me in what i felt was a step below prison garb, i did what i had to do. i called upon my supernatural powers and willed my skeleton out of my body and fell to the floor in an un-grabbable, wiggly heap. when my mother stood up in exasperation, i quickly re-skelefied and ran away. a quick stop at the pantry and we’re back at scene one: handi-snacks under the kitchen sink.

This time, my parents didn’t try to find me like all the other times i “ran away”. Classical music floated through the air as order was restored. i felt SO disobedient. why was i always the bad kid? not to mention that i pulled this stunt on Sunday – a SUNDAY!! a day when i was supposed to be extra good and go to church and talk about how Jesus Christ is my lord and savior who saved me from my sins and then put a dollar in the offering tray to help those less fortunate than us.

Well, two things go through my head as i recount this memory:

•it’s funny and cute how i thought that the handi-snak incident made me a bad person
•it’s frightening and not cute how my idea of what is bad has grown exponentially with age

i see things around me that are truly evil. not six year old evil, but really really bad. and i probably do a lot of them without knowing that i’m re-circulating bad-ness into the universe. is there a limit to what i grow desensitized to?

anyway, that’s why i don’t watch horror movies. i don’t ever want to walk by a man getting his head cut off in a back alley and think, “huh. that's too bad.”

one more sky mall post. that's it. i promise.

I'm sorry. I know I keep harping on this SkyMall thing. But given the amount of travelling I have been doing the past few months, SkyMall is as comforting to me as a good old Korean ear picking.

I don't know how I missed this one the first time around. I mean, really. Do people really use these things? Isn't it better to buy one of those mattresses where you can set a glass of red wine in the middle of it and then jump around without spilling a drop of Bordeaux if you are experiencing lower lumbar pain?




Imagine it:

(dim lighting, strewn rose petals, Barry White in the background…)

Lover 1: "We're gonna take the receiver off the phone . . . because baby, you and me, heh . . . this night, we're gonna get it on" (citation: Barry White, Love Serenade (Part 1)", from his 1975 album Just Another Way to Say I Love You)

Lover 2: "mmmph mmphh hppphh hh?" (translation: can't you see my face is in a swedish polythyrene synthetic mattress pad?"

Unreal.

milk me, audrissy!

audrissy makes me laugh...again.

audrissy: dammit i messed up
audrissy: i told my coworker "milk me" today when we were both getting cereal and he had the milk
audrissy: and he said it sounded weird
audrissy: and then got really embarassed

cornflake girl

Apocrine glands. Apocrine glands are the glands that make the scents that we usually call “body odor” also known as “B.O." What's really interesting is that the distribution of apocrine glands can differ widely from race to race. In fact, Koreans seemed to have won the apocrine gland lottery because not only do “Asians have an extremely low distribution of apocrines”, but “Koreans are among the least odor-producing people on Earth—50% of them have no apocrine glands at all”. (source: “The origin of “Races” by Bert Thompson, Ph.D.). Ok, fine. Some would categorize Bert Thompson in the "Whackadoodle" bucket what with his kooky creationist theories (and alleged misconduct with boys). So if you don't believe Mr. Thompson, why don't you go to your local Koreatown (every self respecting city should have one) or better yet, any Presbyterian church (we Koreans like the middle of the road Protestant demonimations, particularly those who were instrumental in the Ecumenical movement -I just made that up right now but I'm serious about Koreans = Presbos) and do your own smell test. Come on. Just do it. I'll even offer up myself as a data point, but then you have to buy me a drink.

Hold on. I didn’t start this blog entry with the intention of discussing body odor or to extol the virtues of fragrant (or at least, fragrant-less) Koreans. that would be weird. instead, i want to talk about something else that also is a unique Asian quality: dry ear wax. you heard me right. i want to talk about ear wax.

One can identify Asians from non Asians by their ear wax. i know that sounds weird, but it’s true. and lest you find this claim wholly ridiculous and seemingly unfounded, let me quote NY Times: “The wet form [of ear wax] predominates in Africa and Europe, where 97 percent or more of the people have it, and the dry form among East Asians”…
(source: NYT Article "Japanese Scientists Identify Ear Wax Gene" by NICHOLAS WADE, Jan 2006, http://www.nytimes.com/2006/01/29/science/29cnd-ear.html?ex=1296190800&en=7f6c667589328421&ei=5088&partner=rssnyt&emc=rss)

2006? TWO THOUSAND AND SIX??? Japanese "scientists" discovered this in TWO THOUSAND AND SIX?

I didn't need no NYT article to realize this. When I was 12 (in 1989, might i add, almost TWO decades before the Japanese "scientists" discovered the gene), my caucasian friend stuck a Q tip in her ear and when she pulled it out it was covered in orange, sticky goo. I knew we were different. I also thought she poked her brain out.

Ah ear cleanings! I have great memories about ear cleanings. It takes a strong person to admit this and I am willing to bet that a lot of korean americans share the same fond yet unconventional memory. Ear cleaning was a special and strangely comforting ritual in my household. Step one: You cut a hole in the box*. JUST KIDDING! No, really. Step One: I would either stand and put my head in my mother’s lap (or lie down as i got too tall for her). Step Two: My mom brandish a slender bamboo pick that had a shallow scoop at the end of it and a rabbit hair puff ball at the other end. Step three: she would go to work on my ear. Oh, step four: Mom would say “uh muh nah, Irene! did you put cornflakes in your ears this morning?” and, Step five: Irene would crack up. it’s amazing how that joke never got old.
when she was done, she would dust my ear with the other end of the bamboo pick which had a fluff ball on it. It was the best part of the whole cleaning. It felt … satisfying.

i know this practice seems strange and archaic. And I'm 100% sure that there is a direct (negative) correlation between how many times I have had my ears cleaned vs. how well I can hear a person 20 feet away.

So. Next time your korean friend seems to be ignoring you, maybe she just doesn't hear you. But at least she doesn’t smell.


*i just had to plug my favorite SNL skit ever. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BKOiBZpUKW8

ivr stands for...

IVR.

It stands for "interactive voice response". From Wiki, it is "a phone technology that allows a computer to detect voice and touch tones using a normal phone call. The IVR system can respond with pre-recorded or dynamically generated audio to further direct callers on how to proceed. IVR systems can be used to control almost any function where the interface can be broken down into a series of simple menu choices. Once constructed IVR systems generally scale well to handle large call volumes."

I have problems with this definition.

First of all, it should stand for "irritating & vapid robot-answerer". Or something like that. Second of all, it has never proven to me to be a system that has directed me on how to proceed. If anything, it has only heightened my creativity for using expletives and rude hand gestures towards inanimate objects, i.e., my cell phone.

A real life example:

Irene: (internal monologue) "shit, I'm going to miss my flight! Why didn't I take the subway to the airport…american airlines 800 number, please come through for me…"
IVR: (overly enthusiastically) HI!!!! I'm Claire!! Thanks for calling AMEEEEERICAN AIRLINES. Are you calling about a NEW reservation, an EXISTING reservation, or OTHER?
Irene: existing reservation
Claire: (contritely) I'm sorry, but I did not understand you.
Irene: EXISTING RESERVATION
Claire: (contritely) I'm sorry, but
Irene: boooooooooooooop! (That's the sound of Irene pressing "O")
Claire: (contritely with a touch of controlled panic to feign urgency) I'm SORRY, but I didn't understand…
Irene: BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP!!!
Claire: (hopefully) Let's try this again. Are you calling about a
Irene: EXISTING
Claire: (encouragingly) I THINK I heard you say "Existing" is this correct?
Irene: correct
Claire: I'm sorry, I think I heard you say "correct". Is this correct?
Irene : YES.
Claire: (happily) OK! Great! Now, do you have a record locator or flight number?
Irene: NO. I AM RUNNING THROUGH THE STREETS OF MANHATTAN WITH A SUITCASE, A SOMBRERO ON MY HEAD, AND ZINC OXIDE ON MY NOSE. DO YOU THINK I HAVE THE FACULTIES TO LOOK FOR MY RECORD LOCATOR OR FLIGHT NUMBER?
Claire: (jovially) Haha. I'm sorry, was that a YES or a NO?
Irene: NO. for god's sake, that was a NO. No. No. no. no.
Claire: (cheerfully) That's OK! Let's try to look up your record by your last name. What is your last name?
Irene: KIM.
Claire: (incredulously) I THINK I heard you say "PIMP"
Irene: WTF? What kind of last name is PIMP? I said KIM! KIM, YOU MORON! KIIIIIMMMM!!!!!
Claire: (sadly) I'm sorry, but I am having a hard time understanding you. Let me connect you to a American Airlines Customer Service Representative.
Irene: Thank You
Claire: (confusedly, but understandingly) You need to poo?
Irene: Fuck you

FYI - link to the worst job in the world:
http://ph.jobstreet.com/jobs/2007/10/j/50/16074.htm?fr=J

THIS APPEARED ON CRAIG'S LIST

hello everyone! sorry for the long delay. i have been away for a while but now i'm back. i know this isn't a real irene post, but it made me laugh. it's from craigslist. yes, i was browsing on W4M, so sue me. just kidding, guys. do you really think i'd do that?!

ok, so here it is:

ORIGINAL INQUIRY

What am I doing wrong?

Okay, I'm tired of beating around the bush. I'm a beautiful spectacularly beautiful) 25 year old girl. I'm articulate and classy. I'm not from New York. I'm looking to get married to a guy who makes at least half a million a year. I know how that sounds, but keep in mind that a million a year is middle class in New York City, so I don't think I'm overreaching at all.

Are there any guys who make 500K or more on this board? Any wives? Could you send me some tips? I dated a business man who makes average around 200 - 250. But that's where I seem to hit a roadblock. 250,000 won't get me to central park west. I know a woman in my yoga class who was married to an investment banker and lives in Tribeca, and she's not as pretty as I am, nor is she a great genius. So what is she doing right? How do I get to her level?

Here are my questions specifically:

- Where do you single rich men hang out? Give me specifics- bars,
restaurants, gyms

-What are you looking for in a mate? Be honest guys, you won't hurt my
feelings

-Is there an age range I should be targeting (I'm 25)?

- Why are some of the women living lavish lifestyles on the upper east
side so plain? I've seen really 'plain jane' boring types who have
nothing to offer married to incredibly wealthy guys. I've seen drop dead
gorgeous girls in singles bars in the east village. What's the story
there?

- Jobs I should look out for? Everyone knows - lawyer, investment
banker, doctor. How much do those guys really make? And where do they
hang out? Where do the hedge fund guys hang out?

- How you decide marriage vs. just a girlfriend? I am looking for MARRIAGE ONLY

Please hold your insults - I'm putting myself out there in an honest way. Most beautiful women are superficial; at least I'm being up front about it. I wouldn't be searching for these kind of guys if I wasn't able to match them - in looks, culture, sophistication, and keeping a nice home and hearth.

* it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

PostingID: 432279810

THE ANSWER

Dear Pers-431649184:
I read your posting with great interest and have thought meaningfully about your dilemma. I offer the following analysis of your predicament. Firstly, I'm not wasting your time, I qualify as a guy who fits your bill; that is I make more than $500K per year. That said here's how I see it.

Your offer, from the prospective of a guy like me, is plain and simple a cr@ppy business deal. Here's why. Cutting through all the B.S., what you suggest is a simple trade: you bring your looks to the party and I bring my money. Fine, simple. But here's the rub, your looks will fade and my money will likely continue into perpetuity...in fact, it is very likely that my income increases but it is an absolute certainty that you won't be getting any more beautiful!

So, in economic terms you are a depreciating asset and I am an earning asset. Not only are you a depreciating asset, your depreciation accelerates! Let me explain, you're 25 now and will likely stay pretty hot for the next 5 years, but less so each year. Then the fade begins in earnest. By 35 stick a fork in you!

So in Wall Street terms, we would call you a trading position, not a buy and hold...hence the rub...marriage. It doesn't make good business sense to "buy you" (which is what you're asking) so I'd rather lease. In case you think I'm being cruel, I would say the following. If my money were to go away, so would you, so when your beauty fades I need an out. It's as simple as that. So a deal that makes sense is dating, not marriage.

Separately, I was taught early in my career about efficient markets. So, I wonder why a girl as "articulate, classy and spectacularly beautiful" as you has been unable to find your sugar daddy. I find it hard to believe that if you are as gorgeous as you say you are that the $500K hasn't found you, if not only for a tryout.

By the way, you could always find a way to make your own money and then we wouldn't need to have this difficult conversation.

With all that said, I must say you're going about it the right way. Classic "pump and dump."
I hope this is helpful, and if you want to enter into some sort of lease, let me know.

it's back again!

heidi curtiss took a snapshot of this REAL LIFE MAN who willingly (i presume since i don't see no gun to his head) bought and wore this outfit. let me guess, your jaw is to the floor and everything else you were thinking of flew out of your head because you just cannot believe your eyes. recall that these pants were first introduced to us from from blog "i don't know what to say", 6/12/07.

can you BELIEVE that his shoes and his belt do not match?!?! that's just ridiculous.

anthurium

i walked by "ovando" today. it's a hoity toity flower shop near where i live in the west village. in the window was the most gratuitous and wasteful display of anthuriums. what, pray tell, are anthuriums? well, the ONLY reason why i know what anthuriums are is because of this story:

my summers at 381 wagon wheel way were fun. mostly because i got to spend the night with erin, my best friend, at least 3 times a week. we would push up two couches so they were facing each other and for reasons adults cannot understand, this was a comfortable and fun way to fall asleep.

i remember one time erin and i went into her garage after dark to see what the rabbits were up to. they were, for reasons CHILDREN cannot understand, kept in separate cages.

erin and i put heartcakes in cocoa's cage just to see if they would play. and play they did. as cocoa mounted heartcakes (or was it the other was around - i forget which was he and which was she) - we looked on in horror as heartcakes' eyes were filled with fear and rolled around like a loose marble in the cup holder of an All Terrain Vehicle.

when i reached into the cage to save heartcakes, i saw something that i will never forget. it looked like, yes, the stamen of an anthurium.

i tried to erase this memory from my head. but anthuriums are popular flowers. exotic and colorful, they were present in at least 5 of the 14 weddings i went to this year. which meant that i couldn't focus on the most important moment of my friends' lives. instead, i was thinking of rabbit penis. which i find highly disturbing.

i was going to post a picture of an anthurium and indeed, i found several pictures that would do the trick. but i couldn’t bring myself to do it. here’s a link if you really want to know: http://www.video-hawaii.com/dreams/free/anthurium.html

rabbit penis.

Sex, shopping and thinking pink

Evolutionary psychology
Sex, shopping and thinking pink

Aug 23rd 2007
From The Economist print edition
http://www.economist.com/science/displaystory.cfm?story_id=9682588

The brains of men and women are, indeed, different

WOMEN really are better than men at shopping. And they really do prefer pink. And, surprisingly, it is possible that these facts are connected. The first conclusion was drawn by Joshua New of Yale University and his colleagues. The second was drawn by Anya Hurlbert and Yazhu Ling of Newcastle University in England. The connecting theme is that in the division of labour that forms the primordial bargain of human hunter-gatherer societies, it is the men who do the hunting and the women who do the gathering.

Blackberry-picking aside, urban humanity does little gathering from the wild these days, so Dr New decided to look at what seemed to him to be the nearest equivalent—shopping at a farmers' market. There is a fair amount of evidence that men are better than women at solving certain sorts of spatial problems, such as remembering the locations of topographical landmarks. Many researchers suggest such skills may have been important in the past for man-the-hunter, who needed to be able to find his way round the landscape. If that is the case, then woman-the-gatherer might have been expected to develop complementary skills not shown by males. And that, as he writes in this week's Proceedings of the Royal Society, is what Dr New found.

Dr New used the market to test two hypotheses. The first was that women remember the locations of food resources more accurately than men do. The second was that the more nutritionally valuable a resource is, the more accurately its location will be remembered.

To prove these conjectures he recruited 41 women and 45 men and led each of them individually on a merry dance around the chosen market. In the course of this peregrination, each participant visited six of the 90 food stalls in the market. At each of those stalls, participants were given a piece of food to eat. They were asked their preference for the taste of the food, how often they ate that food in normal life, how attractive they found the stall and how often they had made purchases from that stall in the past. After visiting all six stalls, they were taken to the centre of the market and asked to point toward those stalls, one at a time, using an arrow on a dial. In addition, they were asked to rate their own sense of direction.

In the pink
On average, women were 9° more accurate than men at pointing to each stall—a significant deviation if you have to walk some distance to get to a place. This was not because those women had more experience of visiting the market than the men had. Nor did the women rate themselves as having a better sense of direction—indeed the men rated their own navigating skills more highly.

Dr New suggests that these results show women are better than men at the particular task of relocating sources of food. That contrasts with the idea that men are better at navigation in general. In other words, women's minds are specialised for their ancestral task of gathering the sort of food that cannot run away.

That such food is in a different mental category from the one occupied by general landmarks was suggested by the answer to the second hypothesis. The higher the calorific value of the food sold by a stall, the more accurately Dr New's volunteers were able to point towards it. And that result applied to both sexes, though women still did better than men.

How much the participants liked the food did not have an effect on this accuracy. Indeed none of the secondary attributes of the food or stall in question (taste preference, the frequency of an item in a volunteer's normal diet, the appearance of the stall and how often a volunteer used that stall in daily life) were found to affect pointing accuracy. Only the calorific value of the item in question was relevant.

For their part Dr Hurlbert and Dr Ling, who report their study in Current Biology, used coloured patches flashing on a computer screen to find the preferences of their set of volunteers. These volunteers were men and women of British and Chinese origin who were in their early 20s.

Mostly, the two researchers found that people of different sexes and from different continents did not differ in their colour preferences. But there was one exception. Among both the British and the Chinese, women preferred reddish hues such as pink to greenish-blue ones. Among men it was the other way round.

Moreover, though anatomical sex is binary, mental “gender” is more pliable. To see how masculine or feminine the brains of their participants were, Dr Hurlbert and Dr Ling used what is known as the Bem Sex Role Inventory, which asks about personality traits more often associated with one sex than the other. This showed that the more feminine a brain was, regardless of the body it inhabited, the more it liked red and pink.

All this suggests a biological, rather than a cultural, explanation for colour preference. And Dr Hurlbert and Dr Ling have produced one. They suggest that their result may be connected with the fact that the colour of many fruits is at the red end of the spectrum. An evolved preference for red, pink and allied shades—particularly in contrast with green—could thus bring advantage to those who gather such things. And if they can also remember which tree (or stall) to go and visit next time, then so much the better.

hazy memories

if you have been reading my blog, you’ll notice that a lot of my stories involve my shenanigans as a little girl. a few of my dear readers have commented on how good my memory is. not to be a braggart, but i do have a pretty good memory. ask me what we were doing when i first met you and 9 times out of 10, i’ll be able to tell you. i’ll also probably remember what you were wearing (e.g. audris shau: i saw you, you didn’t see me and you were wearing a hat. jen parks: first year, warren hall at a rugby meeting, you were wearing cool pointy shoes. sylvana sinha: on the bus, i just remember your eyelashes, chris pollak: on the rugby pitch eating cheetos).

my first real, cohesive memory takes place in San Diego, circa 1982. the kim family had just moved to san diego from los angeles, the city where i was born. we chose a nice cul-de-sac that had a mere 6 houses on it at the time. it was peppered, however, by empty construction lots that would one day be filled with homes that would one day be filled with families who would one day experience laughter, sadness, love, divorces, contentment, scandal, empty-nest syndrome, dog bites, pet deaths and lost baby teeth.

side story: a man who would eventually become my ophthalmologist moved in across the street in 1987 with his family. he was softspoken and gentle. his name was dr. montgomery. my dad (and i swear every other korean dad with a korean accent will do this) called him dr. MUNGLEMERRY. it wasn’t until i was 16 yrs old and getting fitted for glasses at his office that i realized my mistake. “DR. GORDON MONTGOMERY” was written in neat golden block letters on his door. i had called him dr. munglemerry for 6 yrs. heh).

my family and i went to the construction lot almost every day to see how the house was coming along. it was fun for me and my brother because we would find neat things like arrowheads and dead birds and interesting shaped pieces of wood.

one day i saw a nice big piece of white sidewalk chalk just hanging out in the dust. i could hardly believe my good fortune! what a serendipitious day! today, i thought, will be the day where big smiley faces are drawn on the sidewalk. but when i tried to pick it up, i realized that it was not a piece of chalk. it was a piece of dog shit that had been bleached white by the sun. it just looked like a piece of chalk. the white log of shit crumbled into a fine powder between my fingers when i touched it and i felt disgusted. i remember thinking "this thing fell out of a doggy bung hole. grody."

i wasn’t really sure what to do. i walked over to the adults trying to decide if i should tell them what happened. they were too busy talking to each other and i remember feeling ignored. so i just stood there with my fingers outstretched as far away from each other and my palm as possible. i was contemplating my next move. but then something really funny happened: my parents and the contractor were sniffing the air and lifting up their shoes to see if they had stepped in something like poo. i found this really amusing bc they still didn't realize i was there and certainly had no idea that the odorific fumes were emanating from my tiny right hand.

so, i never did tell them what happened. it was too complicated and i just wanted to go home and wash my hands. when we got back into the car, i sat in the backseat and rubbed my hands on the fuzzy underpart of the car seat over and over again until my fingers were burning.

everyone should try it. think back to your first memory and see what you come up with.

Milkshake bah buh better than yours, ba boo buh better than yours

04:07PM jparks1: What are the lyrics to the Milkshake song?
04:08PM jparks1: its been in my head all day, and I just realized I actually only know 3 of the words I'm singing
04:08PM ikim3: "my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard, and they're like, it's better than yours, damn right it's better than yours i can teach you, but i have to charge, my milkshake...
04:08PM jparks1: awesome!
04:08PM jparks1: thanks
04:08PM ikim3: it used to be my ringtone.
04:08PM ikim3: why?
04:09PM jparks1: I was singing. Milkshake bah buh better than yours, ba boo buh better than yours

sky mall is an undiscovered gem

i take a lot of flights. whether it's to my home home in san diego or any one of my client locations, i always do two things as soon as i settle into my seat: (1) i check to see if the arm rest is in its horizontal position and if it's not, i make sure it is. this sends a firm signal to the person sitting next to me that i am in no mood for small talk, and (2) i study the SkyMall magazine.

SkyMall is an underdiscovered gem. i have found many relevant gifts for loved ones from 35,000 feet in the air.

here's a list of six things - categorized into "cool" and "why why why?"

(1) COOL:

if there's EVER a reason to do the Beyonce Bounce in the shower, here it is. a wall mountable back scratcher.

(2) COOL:

i am SO MAD at myself for not thinking of this portable pillow myself. it's so much better than the neck pillow. the only drawback is the slight embarrassment of blowing it up and then feeling awkward about deflating your breath into recycled airplane air after you land.

(3) COOL:



also useful if you're into sex with little people. i'm just saying that there are other uses to this Pet Staircase. i'm just saying.

...on to "why why why":
(1) WHY WHY WHY:


there's really nothing i can say about these tailgate chairs. it left me speechless.

(2) WHY WHY WHY:


i can see this conversation piece kicking up a lot of trouble at cocktail parties. one drink too many and a compromising photo of you and the sumo wrestler will be tagged in facebook faster than you can say "yokozuna".

(3) WHY WHY WHY:

this is a FAKE security camera. i've seen similar burglar retardant devices and think they are all dumb. included in this list is the fake dog barking tape and the blowup man.

check it out for yourself: www.skymall.com

also, learn about the etymology of the word "midget" and why it's not politically correct: http://www.arturogil.com/m_word.htm

look a little closer and you will see...

A few months ago I blogged about the quadri-colored trousers by Vineyard Vines (Blog "not sure what to say" 6/12/07).

If I ever saw someone wearing those trousers, I would (after I pick myself up from the ground from shock) immediately look around to see if I was at the entrance of the Octagon, New York City's first municipal insane asylum, around closing time.

If I were, I would probably also see someone wearing these (tip sent in by loyal blog reader Sylvana):



All I have to say is that it's lucky for her (and for us) that she wasn't fibbing like the rest of us when she put down "attention to detail" as one of her more marketable attributes on her resume. "what's wrong with that skirt" you ask? Well, look a little closer:



HOT TRAMP? Who thought this was a good idea? I'd really like to be in the design room when this skirt was being discussed. It may have gone something like this:

X: I think the problem with fashion these days is that nothing really sticks out anymore. Everything looks the same. It's always blah blah blah.
Y: I agree with you. We live in a homogenous society filled with fashion lemmings. We need something that SAYS something. Something that makes a statement. Something that makes me say, I AM WOMAN. HEAR ME ROAR!".
X: I got it!! HOT TRAMP.
Y: It's brill. Break out the Beadazzler*, everyone.

Come on people. Hot Tramp?

*The Beadazzler: a popular gadget from the 1980's, the beadazzler is still a stunner at just $19.95. this little blue plastic object, closely resembling a stapler, can be used with special sets to add sparkle to just about anything from scrapbooks to clothing TO THE BUTT OF REALLY EXPENSIVE SKIRTS WITH THE WORDS "HOT TRAMP" ON IT. When you purchase the beadazzler, it comes with plastic rhinestones and studs as well as amini version of itself (cute! but what for?). Since today's fashion is all about glimmer (Paris Hilton's phone is crystallized with Austrian crystals) girls might really enjoy having this handy little bling tool to add a little magic to their wardrobe, OR THE WORDS "HOT TRAMP" TO THE BUTT OF YOUR REALLY EXPENSIVE JEAN SKIRT.
http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/69809/ten_great_gifts_for_teen_girls_under.html (with some editoralizing by irene j. kim in BOLD)

the hungarian guy spy

my parents were extremely inventive when it came to halloween costumes. i find this very impressive considering that Halloween is a tradition that is nonexistent in their homeland of korea. My parents were REALLY good. as in, my brother and i won contests.

My earliest memories of Halloween begin in San Diego, around age 5. at the time, I was attending the allan school which was just down the hill from where i grew up. One day, as I was running down our big ass hill, my feet wanted to go faster than my hip joints were capable of churning out rotations. do you know what i mean? anyway, i fell on my face and for a moment it felt like inertia was going to lift my feet clear over the top of my head. “i’m going to be the world’s first human slinky!” i thought. it got me kind of excited even tho i was in a lot of pain. alas, i only did one flop down and before i knew it, my mother was already picking me up and giving me a good shake to make sure nothing was broken. "Irene, you have a hard head!" Apparently, even tho my mother was a good 20 feet behind me, she could hear the loud crack of my forehead against the sidewalk.

allan school had an annual Halloween fair. i entered the costume contest, as did my brother. My parents got creative. They put an itchy rainbow clown wig on my head, dressed me up in my father's hospital scrubs and his white coat, and wrote "MAD SURGEON" in squiggly letters on the back of it with a red "Marks A Lot" permanent marker. Fake blood stained operating gloves hung out of my side pocket and a stethoscope was draped around my neck. Sarah P, my best friend at the time, ran up to me in her sugar plum fairy costume. blond and angelic, she asked me if i was a crazy clown. i rolled my eyes and said, "i'm a mad surgeon", as in, "you are so dumb for not getting it, sarah" but wished that i was also in a princess costume. I stuck the stethoscope on her forehead and said very gravely "I'm very sorry, but you only have 3 days to live. let's go do the cakewalk."

my brother was darth vadar. he wore black cords and a black long sleeve t shirt with a black polyester cape. brother had a complicated 2 part mask that dad bought from Kay B toy store. the piece de resistance, however, was the tape recorder that hung from his neck. in the tape recorder was a tape that had 60 minutes of "hhaaaaaaaaaa huuuuuuuuuuuuu hhhaaaaaaaaaa huuuuuuuuuuuuuu" over and over and over again. and in case you were wondering what "ha hu" is, that was my onomatopoetic version of darth vadar's creepy breathing. can you believe it? my dear father spent an hour breathing into a tape recorder! 3 years later, he would spend an hour blowing up a 5 foot inflatable raft for my 8th birthday. I sat in it gingerly, holding my breath to make myself lighter. I was deathly afraid of popping the raft and then marinating in the miasma of someone else's breath. Ingrate that i was.

Anyway, my brother and i handily won the Halloween contest.

In 8th grade, my mom got really inventive. She dressed me up in her long skirts (several of them), wrapped my head in a colorful scarf, clipped 5 earrings on my earlobes and bought me a ba-zillion bangles. I was a gypsy...a HUNGARIAN gypsy, in fact.

Again, people asked me what i was. "Are you a bag lady?" And again, i sighed and explained, "no, i am a gypsy, a HUNGARIAN gypsy". By this point, i was kind of used to explaining my costumes every year. "i'm a traditional korean girl wearing a traditional korean dress. it's called a HAN BOK. a HAN BOK."... i'm charles dickens - can't you see that this jacket is English tweed? feel it"... "i'm a orthopedic surgeon, look how strong my hands are. they can fix your bones," i would say with a bored look in my eyes.

As expected, I won the costume contest tho my victory was severely undermined by the fact that my teacher introduced me as a HUNGARIAN GUY SPY. "WTF? You actually have credentials to educate young minds?" I thought. "What the hell is a guy spy?"*

It was during one Halloween that my heart broke for the first time. It happened when my best friend forever erin and i were trick or treating. we heard a pitiful mewing in the distance. it sounded just awful, like a squeaky hamster wheel. no, like a squeaky hamster wheel where the exercising hamster was also singing the rodent version of "rigoletto". we discovered that the noise was coming from a beautiful Persian cat who was trapped under its owners garage door. the door was pressing on the cat's back and a stream of urine was zigzagging down the driveway. erin and i gasped in horror and we ran to ring the doorbell. "your cat your cat! peeing on your driveway! open the door NOW." i am pretty sure our voices dropped a couple of octaves when we said the word "NOW". I may have even rolled my eyes into the back my head for special effect.

the owner lifted up the garage door and picked up the cat as if it was dryer lint. he didn't even canoodle it or ask it if it was ok. i ran up to the cat and tried to speak to it through my eyes. "If you want me to rescue you from your horrible horrible owner, lick your nose, okay? lick your nose, you hear me? i'll rescue you!" the cat didn't lick its nose so i tried another method, "mew mew meeeeeeeeeewww. mew mew, mewmew!!!!"

The weird thing is, i don't even like cats very much. I think they are sneaky. But no one wants to see a beautiful thing suffer. no one wants to see an ugly thing suffer. later, i found out that the cat had broken its back and died. and i cried as if it were my own cat. i cried because no one cared and my heart felt sad for weeks. it felt even sadder than when i accidentally starved my own pet turtle, shelly, to death and found him dessicated atop his rock. Because indifference is colder than ignorance.


*Actually, there is a Guy Spy. "Guy Spy and the Crystals of Armageddon: In this interactive cartoon, you are brave English soldier, who must stop Fascist Von Max, who wants to build a Doomsday Machine with the special crystals. http://www.mobygames.com/game/guy-spy-and-the-crystals-of-armageddon"
Fine. But in 1990, there was no such thing.

sorry, mole

the mole came back benign.

i *really* miss it now.

http://www.justicedenied.org/

my mole martyr

jalvles100: so how is everything
jalvles100: I mean
jalvles100: now that the mole is gone
irenejkim77: i miss it a little.
irenejkim77: it was adoooorable.
irenejkim77: super tiny and brown. just a little freckle, really.
irenejkim77: but then it raised itself - probably bc it was trying to get closer to the sun.
irenejkim77: but by doing that, it called attention to the fact that it could turn into a malignant baddie and got itself violently dug out of my shoulder.
irenejkim77: so. moral of the story is - don't speak up bc there's a chance that you'll be executed.
irenejkim77: anyway, it's a martyr. it's my mole martyr.
jalvles100: wow
jalvles100: I suspect the mole will be immortalized in your blog
irenejkim77: what.
irenejkim77: oh yeah.
irenejkim77: good idea.

vacation planning

I'm trying to plan a vacation with a few friends. Becky and I are trying to convince Pasy to go to Colombia. This is what happens when you get three girls in finance trying to reason things out…

ORIGINAL EMAIL WHERE BECKY AND I ARE TRYING TO CONVINCE PASY THAT COLOMBIA IS SAFE:
From: Chambers, Rebecca M
Sent: Monday, June 18, 2007
To: Pasy Wang
Cc: Kim, Irene (EQ - New York)
Subject: RE: Vacation

I definitely don’t want to go if you don’t feel comfortable. That being said, I think that is just an outdated perception. Also, there is that article from NYTimes, I can’t imagine that they would highlight the city as a great place.

Here’s the Colombia kidnapping index on Bloomberg!!


(COLOMBIA MONTHLY KIDNAPPINGS - COKPMON INDEX GP GO)

PASY HAS A TRADING IDEA:
From: Pasy Wang
Sent: Monday, June 18, 2007
To: Kim, Irene (EQ - New York); Chambers, Rebecca M
Subject: RE: Vacation

I just sent the index to my co-workers and they said, 3 unaccompanied American girls going to Colombia, they’re going long for sure.

(note: as in, they are going to buy this index in the hopes that we get kidnapped so that the graph goes up so that they make money).

IRENE'S RESPONSE:
From: Kim, Irene (EQ - New York)
Sent: Monday, June 18, 2007
To: Pasy Wang; Chambers, Rebecca M
Subject: RE: Vacation

were they joking?

PASY HEDGES HER RISK:
From: Pasy Wang
Sent: Monday, June 18, 2007
To: Kim, Irene (EQ - New York); Chambers, Rebecca M
Subject: RE: Vacation

No and they told me I should too, to hedge myself.

(note: as in, if you're going to get kidnapped, you might as well make money. nevermind you will be in the back of a car, bound and gagged. at least your portfolio is doing well)

Btw, I’m laughing out loud at my desk, people just keep staring at me.

PASY RUMINATES SOME MORE:
From: Pasy Wang
Sent: Monday, June 18, 2007
To: 'Chambers, Rebecca M'
Cc: Kim, Irene (EQ - New York)
Subject: RE: Vacation

This is hilarious…and yet not funny at all. Irene, can you please practice your Spanish? I asked my Venezuelan friend, “will i die in Colombia?” He said “does someone in your group speak Spanish?”

IRENE PUEDE HABLAR ESPAÑOL!!
From: Kim, Irene (EQ - New York)
Sent: Monday, June 18, 2007
To: Pasy Wang; Chambers, Rebecca M
Subject: RE: Vacation

por favor, no quiero morir.
(pls, i don't want to die.)

PASY IS SCARED:
From: Pasy Wang
Sent: Monday, June 18, 2007
To: Kim, Irene (EQ - New York); Chambers, Rebecca M
Subject: RE: Vacation

Oh, we’re going to die for sure.

IRENE DISAGREES:
From: Kim, Irene (EQ - New York)
Sent: Monday, June 18, 2007
To: Pasy Wang; Chambers, Rebecca M
Subject: RE: Vacation

ALTO PASY!
(stop pasy!)
estoy muy fuerta!
(i am very strong.)

well, my friends, that was entirely the wrong tactic. pasy ix-nayed colombia. quiero estudiar espanol mas en escuela!"*

* my colleagues on the european sales desk tell me that the correct way to say "i wish i studied harder in school" is: quisiera que yo hubia estudiado mas en universidad. dammit. maybe pasy was right.

mean thoughts

sometimes when i see morbidly obese people standing passively on the down escalators, i want to tap them on the shoulder and say, “excuse me. this is an escalator, not a ride. this may be why you have a Body Mass Index of 50*. you are resting when you should be burning calories.”


is that wrong? ok, i feel bad now.


*http://www.nhlbisupport.com/bmi/

puff, the magic irene

Every morning I try REEEEEEALLY REALLY hard to remember to take my vitamins. They are exactly one inch long and a muted orange-y yellow color. These gel caps are filled to the brim with a mysterious and magical powder. I dread taking it every morning because it feels like a dry piece of crack pipe as it makes it's way down my esophagus.

This morning I did something stupid. I stuck the vitamin in my mouth and washed it down with my hot Dunkin D. I sat there, blinking back tears of pain, and tried to calculate the rate at which a gel cap would deteriorate when surrounded by fleshy esophageal varices. By my rough calcuations, I figured that even the speed of light would not be fast enough.

I solved this problem by inadvertantly letting out a super loud, bodacious burp (the body works in amazing ways) and I felt the pill pass through my throat. But the coolest thing happened to me next. Right when everyone turned around to see who burped, a cloud of orange powder floated right out of my mouth. I think they all think I'm a dragon!

beautiful spoils

now listen:
when it feels like it was all for naught, remember.
when it seems to me
that you are someone else, i remember.
when my life seems far from yours, please remember.

together we built it up and
together we tore it down.
but the fact remains: once

it was the most beautiful house on the block.

i believe you

today at work i saw something weird in the bathroom. when i walked into my stall, there was a little altar of Splenda packets in front of the toilet. They were arranged with care and from my vantage point of 5’ 4” above ground (in addition to the fact that I never wear my glasses even tho i really should), they looked like soft canary feathers against the gray tile.

I thought to myself, "well, that's strange. Why would anyone ever bring 6 packets of Splenda into the bathroom and then leave them there?"

I came to the conclusion that a lot of things seem weird when you don't have all the information. And then when you do have all the information, you think, “Of course! How could I have thought it to be any other way? Silly me.”

My mom and I used to go shopping almost every weekend when I was in high school. Not to buy, just to browse is what we would say. Mom and I would walk around Fashion Valley, an amazing outdoor mall, and just "catch up”, often hand in hand. I remember one time, in front of Wet Seal, there was a man bent over a bunch of wires working away. A “work man" was what my mother called him. Other people would probably call him an "electrician." But I knew exactly who she was talking about when my mom whispered to me, “Uh muh nah! Look at what that work man is wearing” because this work man had on the most curious outfit. He had a very tiny white wife beater that stopped right under his pectoral muscles. This wife beater was paired with extraordinarily low jeans. His entire midriff was exposed and while that is not THAT strange in and of itself, what WAS strange was the fact that his midsection was a perfectly smooth, mottled tan, and completely devoid of hair. It was the hairless thing that seemed particularly odd given the fact that the work man had hair pouring out of every other visible nook and cranny. And i mean every. We literally stopped in our tracks.

Then the work man did the most peculiar thing. He took his entire midriff OFF. Well, okay fine. He didn't really take his midriff off. He was wearing a super wide, super tan, super hairless work belt. And he took THAT off. But the point is, well, we felt bad for jumping to conclusions before we knew the whole story. We should have given him the benefit of the doubt.

This takes me back to senior year at Wellesley College to a time when I hope someone gave me the benefit of the doubt. I lived on the top floor of Claflin Hall, one of the prettiest, most storybook dorms on campus. And to get to my room, one had to take a separate set of stairs up to the turrets.

In college, i had a friend who was very soft spoken. Let’s call her Tootsie. Tho Tootsie was quiet, she expressed all of her pent up aggression through activities that required force. Any kind of force whatsoever. What I mean by this is that she would SLAM doors shut. She would CRASH her books on the library table. She would CRACK every pencil she used. Tootsie stomped up my stairs with the grace of a hundred and one pachyderms. And, just in case there was any confusion, that’s not graceful at all.

It’s 9 am on a Sunday and I hear her heavy footsteps. Damn her. I'm going to teach her a lesson. I jump out of bed, dizzy/sleepy/drunk and stick my left foot in a shower slipper and the right foot in the high heels I wore the night before. I wrap a towel around my body and wobble through the door and scream BOOOOOOO!!!!!

It was a work man, not Tootsie, on the other side. Yup, there was his tan leather belt! The poor guy fell against the wall in surprise and screamed. I can hear his scream even now as I type. I really did think he was going to cry.

I felt so bad.

I jumped back into bed and could only hope that he would give me the benefit of the doubt. Just like I'm going to give the person who brought six packets of Splenda into the bathroom stall and left them there. There must be a reason that makes sense.

everybody toots...sometimes

03:13PM bonita: omg
03:13PM bonita: omg
03:13PM irenejkim77: what
03:13PM irenejkim77: ?
03:13PM irenejkim77: are you ok?? what?
03:13PM bonita: just made the loudest noise
03:13PM bonita: somebody HAD to have noticed
03:14PM irenejkim77: like...what kind of noise?
03:14PM irenejkim77: uhhhhh....
03:14PM bonita: THE kind
03:14PM irenejkim77: HHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA
03:14PM irenejkim77: you are HILARIOUS!!!
03:14PM irenejkim77: calm down calm down
03:14PM bonita: I am giggling like crazy
03:14PM irenejkim77: no one will notice.
03:14PM irenejkim77: shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
03:14PM irenejkim77: shhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh quiet. stop.
03:14PM bonita: x and y aren't here
03:14PM irenejkim77: thank GOD!
03:14PM irenejkim77: hahahaha. hahahahaha!
03:14PM bonita: but the guy on the other side of my desk is
03:14PM irenejkim77: don't worry.
03:14PM bonita: HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAa
03:14PM irenejkim77: you have to hahahahahahahahaha I can't hahahahahahaa
03:15PM irenejkim77: ok.
03:15PM irenejkim77: calm down.
03:15PM bonita: SO LOUD
03:15PM irenejkim77: no one will remember.
03:15PM irenejkim77: hahahahahaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
03:15PM bonita: ok
03:15PM irenejkim77: that's REALLY funny.
03:15PM bonita: am bright red, trying not to laugh is making me hyper-ventilate
03:15PM irenejkim77: dude. chill. take a deep breath.
03:15PM irenejkim77: and go to the bathroom.
03:15PM bonita: NOOO
03:15PM bonita: then he'll think I have a problem
03:15PM bonita: haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
03:16PM irenejkim77: haaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
03:16PM bonita: if you blog this, can you pls change my name to bonita?

sweet dream

last night
i dreamt of you
and we
were on a hill
and we
were just talking
(as if)
we were best friends

all i wanted was a churro

When I was maybe 16 yrs old or so, I worked at SeaWorld in San Diego for one summer. I drove my little red Honda Civic to work. From where I grew up, (Bonita, CA) it was about a 35 minute drive. It was actually my brother's Honda, but he got the Jeep Cherokee when he went to college. So I was left with the little Honda which was trusty and looked like a cinnamon tic tac.

I didn't work feeding the dolphins or cleaning fish tanks, so in a way, I was a SeaWorld impostor. I worked at a kiosk as a poster roller. Let me clarify…you know those Asian men who sit on the sidewalk of Times Square and paint a word (usually your name) using colorful flowers/dolphins/trees instead of letters? E.g., the "I" in IRENE would be a palm tree. The "R" would be a curved porpoise. The "E" would be a hula dancer with a really bad goiter... you get the picture. And no, silly! I didn't paint the names! I was the authentic Asian girl who rolled up the scrolls and put them in the tube. Day after day. Hour after hour. I nearly drowned myself in Shamu's piss pool out of sheer boredom.

So when I completed my last day of work ever at SeaWorld, you can imagine my joy! I skipped out of there like a little girl, my long ponytail swinging behind me. On the way to the employees’ parking lot, I thought to myself, "You know what, Irene? Why not treat yourself to a delicious Mexican donut dusted with cinnamon sugar, also known as a 'churro'?” (roll the ‘r’, please, in churrrrrrro). It was a fine idea, indeed.

I paid for the goods and was poised to take a bite when someone knocked me over the head with her purse. BAM! I staggered to my right. I was furious and embarrassed. Do I pretend it never happened? Do I stagger to the left, finish off with a twirl and start a little dance? Before I even had a chance to figure it all out, the same crazy Coo-Coo-Head hit me again over the head again, this time pitching me forward several steps. By this time, a small crowed had gathered around me. Did you see that? Do we help her? That was so funny! I was the circus freak! I was the car wreck! And I was still clueless as to what was going on!

I decided the best way to handle this was to pretend nothing had happened. The person who was shoving me ran away too quickly for me to tackle her anyway. I re-poised myself to take a bite out of my churro when, as if I had suddenly acquired Tourette Syndrome*, my arm shot straight up in the air. I looked up. And it was a strange moment for me. Initial confusion was chased away by a shock of total clarity.

I was under attack by two monstrous seagulls. MONSTROUS. One of them had my SeaWorld windbreaker cuff in its mouth. And the other one was repeatedly flapping me on the head with its wing. My "fight or flight" response was called into action and I fought them valiently for my hard earned churro. To tell you the truth, I really wanted to JUST GIVE UP! But a latent "Rocky Balboa" surged in me and it would not let go of the damn donut.

Eventually, a massive shit squirt dangerously close to the eye left me defeated. And all I was left with was a small 3 inch length of churro. Smushed, greasy, inedible. I was sad. Only then did people try to help me! But it was too late. I brushed them off brusquely and ran to my little red tic tac Honda.

As I drove home, I came out of my shock and I started to cry. I was crying because my knees were skinned and I had poop in my hair. I was crying because I had repeatedly looked into the butt hole of a seagull. I was crying because my churro had gone to wrongful owners. I walked in through the garage door that led into my house. My mom was cooking dinner. When she saw me, she dropped the pan she was holding and said, "UH MUH NAH!" (translation - oh my goodness!).

Poor Mommy. She must have thought I had gotten jumped or even worse. I cried and cried as she held me and smushed the bird poop all over her shirt. Something only a mother will do.

I can actually laugh about this incident today. It's really funny, in all honesty. But churros make me quiver with fear. And seagulls? Forgetaboutit.

*I know it’s really un-PC to talk about Tourette Syndrome so glibly. I apologize to anyone I have offended. Did you know: One of the less common possible symptoms of Tourettes (yet the most recognizable) is Coprolalia (outburst of obscenities and curse words). Coprolalia is actually very uncommon in Tourette Syndrome and only effects as low as 5% to 15% of Touretter’s. Learn something new every day.

i'm pro female and all, but...

irenejkim77: oooh. THAT makes total sense. ok.
irenejkim77: go tit.
irenejkim77: hahahahah!
irenejkim77: gooooooooooo tit!
irenejkim77: hilarious.
irenejkim77: GOT it. (is obviously what I meant)
irenejkim77: I used to be a cheerleader, but even that is a little excessive for me.

you! don't bring me flowers anymore...

i don't like flowers. i don't like receiving flowers as gifts. i don't like giving flowers as gifts. similar to my dislike of soup spoons (blog: "slow day at work" 5.31.07), i can logically defend this prejudice. (let me take this moment to tell my readers the only actual phobia is the one i have of fr*gs. i don’t even like to see that word in print. they creep me out. as do pickles since they resemble fr*gs).

cut flowers are beings en route to death. i hate to be so macabre, but it’s true. their misleading vibrancy is masking the fact that their roots have literally been cut and their days are quite numbered. when i see a bouquet of flowers, i cannot help but think that in a few days, those pretty, quasi living di/monocotyledons (dude, remember that from 5th grade science?) will be face down, feet up in my trash can.

so, AS IF i needed another reason to deeply, deeply resent flowers, something terrible happened to me yesterday. i even took a picture of it but i think i forgot to save it because i now i can't find it on my phone.

the flowers which were pushed on me by the clean up crew at a wedding i attended last week, spawned a caterpillar. when i saw this larvae with it’s undulating and segmented body just hanging out in my living room, i felt like i was being punk’d. i was praying that ashton kutcher was hiding in my bedroom along with my brother, best friend, and mom. please, ashton, tell me this is not real. i’m waiting for you to holler “surprise! it’s not a real caterpillar! it’s a GUMMY caterpillar! hahahahahaha!”

i am not kidding when i say that my gag reflex kicked in. and after my mini gag session, i did a really peculiar thing: i started jumping up and down, shook my head, shot my hands straight up into the air, all the while started screaming "ahhhhhhh!". i think the clinical term for this sudden and violent outburst would be “to engage in a freak out.”

i did what any convulsing woman would do…i steadied my twitching hand long enough to knock on my neighbors door and when he answered, i managed to squeak out, “caterpillar, help me…please, i *insert freak out dance here* can’t do it. caterpillar. flowers. *insert gag reflex*”

i honestly cannot believe that he followed me into my apartment. for all he knew, i was a crazy psychopath with a sadist tendencies. but he did and i’ll never forget the image of the tightly coiled caterpillar being flushed down the toilet. i know it’s not rational, but now when i go to the bathroom, i feel like the caterpillar will exact it’s revenge on my bum one day.

the great french cover up

11:53AM ikim3: i have a fashion question.
11:53AM jparks1: yes
11:54AM ikim3: if i am wearing a black dress with red lipstick, is red (short) nails overkill?
11:54AM ikim3: or should i get a french manicure?
11:54AM jparks1: i hate french manicures
11:54AM ikim3: really? why?
11:55AM jparks1: short red nails is fine
11:55AM ikim3: ok. thank you.
11:55AM ikim3: why do you hate french mans?
11:56AM jparks1: french mans are tacky
11:56AM jparks1: and I especially hate it on toes
11:59AM ikim3: ew.
12:00PM ikim3: the problem i have with french manicures is that it's covering up dirt.
12:00PM ikim3: which is never a good idea.
12:01PM ikim3: ppl with french manicures look like they have nice white nails when in fact, lots of dirt could be stuck under there.
12:01PM ikim3: it's misleading. the french. they do that with perfume, too.
12:01PM ikim3: covering up B.O.
12:01PM jparks1: yep
12:01PM jparks1: its like a cover up
12:01PM ikim3: the great french cover up.

introducing trouble

let’s go back to 381 wagon wheel way. the most salient memories i have of those years are of the glorious san diego summers and of playing with my beautiful best friend erin cory who lived across the street. when erin was about 6 (and I was about 9) she procured two lop eared rabbits named heartcakes and cocoa. heartcakes and cocoa made my lips and eyes and ears itch. tho it was painfully obvious, i didn’t want to admit that i was allergic to rabbits. (side note, i am also allergic to potatoes, tomatoes, corn, soy, and peanuts. and anything else that produces dander). so what i would do was put my brother’s striped tube socks over my arms like long gloves and touch the rabbits lovingly through the hole in their wire cage. it didn’t do jack shit, but I think allergies are 50% psychosomatic anyway.

i was a little prankster. i was that kid who jumped out from behind doors, fell and cried only to yell “just kidding! when help arrived”. i even faked running away from home when i was really just hiding in the back of my mom’s car while she frantically drove around looking for me. can you believe it? i thought it was funny at the time…if only my 7 year old brain could have understood the depth of panic my mother felt, i would take it back and never do it again. all in all, i was just a really *happy* little girl.

erin and i played tricks together. one of our favorites was the peanut butter trick which we did but once. the set up was this: get some chunky peanut butter and shape it into a long piece of turd. then put the fake turd on erin’s doorstep. borrow a dog if you don’t have one yourself ( we used the lucas’ little dachshund…let’s call him “ziggy” because i can’t recall his name right now). ring the doorbell and wait. what unfolds was seriously hysterical. for us, at least.

we could see sharon (erin’s mom) come up the stairs to answer the front door through the white shutters. sharon was the world’s most perfect mother. gorgeous, loving, huggy, perfumy. it’s not surprising that erin is exactly the same way. sharon was my “i’m going to run away and live with sharon” sharon. sharon was the epitome of what i thought an american family should be like (and what i myopically thought the kim family was not.) sharon was not just another lovely person, she was an aspiration. i loved her penchant for hunter green. i loved her perfectly golden pancakes topped with squeezable butter. i loved the way she cut my food into tiny pieces of mush and I just loved sharon.

as sharon opened the door, my transformation into an oscar worthy actress began. “look sharon! ziggy did an accident!” i would glare accusingly at dear little ziggy who was probably vigorously licking his anus. sharon’s eyes would catch the peanut butter turd innocently lying on the grey concrete and before she could do or say anything, i would say, “but don’t worry, i’ll take care of everything. “ i picked up the peanut butter turd and jammed the whole thing into my mouth.

what happens after that is unclear. i can only imagine peals of laugher mixed in with screams of horror mixed in with an attempted heimlich maneuver mixed in with one wriggly irene running home.

it’s really ironic that i developed an allergy to peanuts as an adult. that means I can never play that trick on you.

"not sure what to say" (real item from www.vineyardvines.com, the WASP-iest, mass label out there)

From: Ali, Wajahat
Sent: Tuesday, June 12, 2007 3:58 PM
To: Mascarenhas, Mark A; Kim, Irene (EQ - New York)
Subject: Not sure what to say...

http://www.vineyardvines.com/index.cfm/fuseaction/products.detail/categoryID/4a6fd419-651c-4c88-a341-31f39f1f6129/productID/49493234-b52c-4db3-8ba6-be5400134249/


Wajahat


-----Original Message-----
From: Sinha, Sylvana [mailto:Sylvana.Sinha@xxxx.com]
Sent: Tuesday, June 12, 2007 4:23 PM
To: Kim, Irene (EQ - New York); tanyaxxx@xxx.com
Subject: RE: Not sure what to say...


I can't believe they are $98!

Estado Libre Asociado de Puerto Rico

This weekend I had to go to Saks Fifth Avenue to return a dress I bought during one of my frenzied retail therapy sessions. Honestly, even I am shocked and awed at the unrestrained and voracious nature of my spending. Just to put it into perspective, I spent more than 3,000 USD in 1 hour. WTF? Who do I think I am? Princess Haewon of Korea? (she's real - and I am obsessed with her: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haewon,_Princess_of_Korea). So, to make wrong things right, I sheepishly went from store to store returning all that I didn't REALLY need. Which was pretty much everything, including the ivory alpaca cape from Barney's.
I forgot that the Puerto Rican Parade was running right up 5th Avenue on Saturday. But for once, I had time on my hands so I didn't mind waiting in line as the police managed the flow of non Puerto Rican Parade revelers across 5th Ave. The Po-Po let us trickle through bit by bit by moving the metal barricades a few inches and then closing it off abruptly, without warning, and with great mirth. We were like a human titration across 5th Ave - a very delicate balance had to be maintained.


Some observations:
1) Ricky Martin has a foundation. That's Ricky's bom bom in the picture.


2) Long nails hurt when they poke you in the chest. See, I wanted to take a snapshot of the pretty Puerto Rican girls. This picture was taken right after I yelled "LOOK UP THERE!" so that I could take the picture without arousing much suspicion. The one in the middle turned to me and said, "what are YOU (poke) looking at?"


3) The way out of a situation like the one I detail above, you only have to do one thing: raise your hands and yell "BORIIIIIQUUUUUUUUUAAAAAAAAAAAAAA" (http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=boriqua) and...

4) ...you are INSTANTLY inducted into the Puerto Rican circle of love, regardless of race, gender, or the fact that the entire time you are listening to Pete Yorn wailing about something on your iPod. Whatever it was, it was quite possibly the most un Puerto Rican song possible.

(And by "un" I mean "anti/opposite of/contrary to", not "un" the Spanish word for "one/a"...i know this seems nit-picky, but i have a co-worker named "se" and everytime someone would say "yo, se!" i thought they were saying "i know" in Spanish. Being multi-lingual can cause much confusion.

a story by st kim

http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile&friendid=151806215

*this* bothers me

I get up really early to go to work. I am usually on the train platform by 6:10 am bc I refuse to let myself get stuck in the golden handcuffs and take a taxi to work. Which is what everyone else on my trading desk does. In any case, it only saves me 20 minutes of sleep. Which begs the question, would you pay 10 dollars for an extra 20 minutes of sleep? Which over the course of the year is 2400 dollars which is really 4800 pre tax. So the REAL question is, would you pay almost 5000 to sleep an extra 20 minutes a work day? It's a personal decision, but for me, the answer is, NO.

Anyway, I digress. Sometimes I walk out my door and step over drunk hobos or locked out boyfriends curled up like guinea pigs in my lobby vestibule (and I'm being generous by calling it a lobby). Sometimes, as a resident of Christopher Street, I will run into a gaggle of barefooted trannies coming back from a big night out. As I wiggle myself between them, I think "this is what salmon feels like when they have to swim upstream to do whatever they do upstream". The trannies know me at this point and they all pretend to touch my hair and coo, "oooooh…pretty business lady!".

None of that bothers me.

What DOES bother me is particular short man in a super tacky leather/pleather/naugahyde jacket who is also at the platform every morning. He will walk *this close* to me and say, "hey baby" in a very salacious way that makes my skin crawl. He makes a point to sit across from me every morning. The one time I ran out of a subway car to avoid being in the same one as him, I missed the train. I was so mad! Once I am on the train, however, I am usually on my blackberry or listening to my ipod or reading my book or paper. So over time, he has become a non entity. Kind of like a hooker's plantar's warts. In the grand scheme of things, it's the least of her worries.

This morning, I hit a wall. I saw him coming out of the corner of my eye and I just DID NOT WANT TO DEAL WITH THE SHORT MAN. I turned to him and said, "It would be awesome if you could PLEASE F*CK OFF." but I said it really sweetly bc who needs that kind of agression at 6:10 in the morning?

We sat in different cars this morning.

this is the way we think

10:11AM jparks1: I just threw up at Au Bon Pain
10:11AM ikim3: OMG.
10:11AM jparks1: so hungover
10:11AM ikim3: oh.
10:11AM ikim3: i was just about to call you bc
10:11AM ikim3: i thought you were preggers
10:11AM ikim3: WHEW!

i wish

i could type without making mistakes. i love the sound of "tippity tappity tip tip tap".
the sound of typing uninterrupted by "BONK BONK BONK" which is the sound the backspace button makes on my computer.

(look. it's my initals. ijk!)

The Anatomy of a Nose

I don't like carrots. I find that carrots, more than any other food, have a way of sneaking into your nasal cavity. The result is an awful, tight, "I've got a booger in my nose yet not REALLY in my nose" kind of feeling. Carrots are especially dangerous bc they don't mush up as you chew them. Instead, the pieces just get smaller and smaller. But still stay separate. As the itty bitty carrot pieces multiply, so do your chances of swallowing the wrong way and getting one tiny piece lodged into your nasal cavity. Tho the size of a pencil tip, that carrot piece will feel like you've got the Rock of Gibraltar up your nose.

When I was a kid, my Aunt Betty cooked up spaghetti with meat sauce. It was a real treat bc I basically ate Korean food every night. I slurped it up with gusto with noodles flapping everywhere. I probably had red spaghetti sauce marks all over my face as the soft noodles slapped against my forehead and cheeks. Then I probably left the table to make a fort with my brother and ran around the house until I hit my head against the wall and cried.

Later that night, as my mom was tucking me in, I told her that my throat felt funny. And that I also wanted to pick my nose "but not really." My mom didn't properly diagnose me at all. Instead (bless her) she gave my little nose a squeeze and kissed me goodnight.

I woke up the next day with the same weird feeling. And because I was only 5 yrs old, I just couldn't articulate what I was feeling. Except with "Oma, I want you to pick my nose." (Hahahah, I'm totally cracking myself up, this story is so ridiculous).

So my mom took me to the bathroom…and held down one baby nostril and then the other and told me to blow. AND THEN A LONG NOODLE FLEW OUT OF MY NOSE AND STUCK ON THE BATHROOM MIRROR. Imagine our surprise!!!

So that's how I learned that everything in the head is kind of connnected to each other.

advice from a wise woman...a little self helpy but i still like it

How do I be content with what I have and stop wishing for things I don't have?

"Contentment is relative. Practice gratitude. No kidding. Just make a mental list any time of every little bitty thing you have to be grateful for. It could be a nice man at the deli counter. It could be that the subway came quickly. It could be a little flower bed in bloom, a funny-faced dog, a laughing baby, that you have a job that challenges you and pays you well, that you have a man who loves you more than life itself and has dedicated himself to make you happy. Once you start looking, you can find a million things. Gratitude fills the void you feel. And supposedly, from a place of gratitude, you attract more of what you're grateful for.

Try it. Every single nite as I try to go to sleep, I make my list for the day and fall asleep without anxiety."






...ah f*ck it. who am i kidding...

39 Magazine Street

everything will be alright. everything
will be alright.

i wake up and remember how everything happened and then i wake up...it was supposed to be this way

it skimmed the surface. then it sank one inch down. today it's almost two inches and then it's gone. i'm close
to remembering why it was supposed to be this way

it took me by surprise (did it for you, too?) but I think everything should be ok.

(but don't forget me...at least not right now.)

i mean, i'm no grammar genius, but i'm clearly more grammar geniousy than those ppl at the MTA

even tho i was an english major, i still say things like, "more easier" as in "hey, why don't you just buy slip on shoes? they make things more easier". or "more funner" as in "i have found that bubbles make things more funner."

i blame this on my immigrant parents. don't get me wrong. i love them more than anything on this earth and they have given me everything from my first side zip bongo jeans to my, well, genes.

but. you can understand how one can get confused when a mother routinely says things like, "for ONCE in a BLUE LIFETIME can you PLEASE clean your room?" i also have memories of my mother singing me to sleep. a sweet image, no? uh, no. i would have nightmares to the lyrics: "you are my sunshine, my only sunshine. you make me haPPY! when skies are graaaaay. you'll never know DEAR how much i LOVE YOU, oh pls don't TAKE my sunshine awaaaaaaaaaaayyyy....the other night DEAR when i was sleePING...i thought i held YOU in my aaaaaaaarms. but when i woke DEAR i was mistaken, and so i HUNG myself and i DIED." note - the correct lyrics are "but when i woke DEAR i was mistaken, and so i HUNG my HEAD and i CRIED." big diff. biiiiiiig diff.

but when i was on the subway this morning...i saw a sign that just didn't look right. i may not be a grammar genious, but i would think that ppl at the mta can spot a run on sentance as well as the next guy.

"Litter gets on the tracks and catches fire and that causes train delays that make you late aside from making trains and stations untidy because a little litter goes a long way." ?!?! WTF?

slow day at work

TanyaQS: know what I hate?
irenejkim77: soup spoons.
irenejkim77: i HATE soup spoons.
irenejkim77: so big.
TanyaQS: hahah really?!?
irenejkim77: oh yeah.
irenejkim77: soup spooons are unecessary.
irenejkim77: do you REALLY need a bigger spoon to eat soup with? your lips don't stretch around it as nicely.
TanyaQS: that is true
irenejkim77: i mean, ok, so we get 5 more drops of soup in the spoon.
irenejkim77: but so what?
irenejkim77: no one eats soup with a ladel.
irenejkim77: that's basically what a soup sppoon is.
irenejkim77: a mini ladel.
TanyaQS: that's exactly what it is
TanyaQS: I thikn the point is to be able to get the soup on the spoon easier
TanyaQS: but it doesn't necessarily have to be bigger to do that...
TanyaQS: weird
irenejkim77: right.
irenejkim77: it shoudl be MORE shallow but wider.
irenejkim77: like a shovel.
irenejkim77: NOT a ladel.

a short story

there once lived a story who was only 2 inches tall. she was really cute.

the end.

A Nose Like Elizabeth Taylor

381 Wagonwheel Way, Bonita, CA 92002. it doesn’t exist anymore. They took away the zip code when I was in 8th grade and made it into 91902. It took me a long time to remember the new zipcode. 92002 was ingrained in my head probably because of my parents who put the fear of God in me about getting lost and being raised by a new, strange, caucasian family. If I ever got lost, I needed to tell whoever found me where I lived…right down to the zip code. I also had an ID necklace that I used to wear at all times. It was oval, silver, and one side had my information on it. the other side had Jesus etched into it. his arms are outstretched and there are little baby lambs at his feet. I bet you my parents picked it out for me. I remember thinking that his hair was so odd. Flat on top and thick at the bottom. Middle parted and wavy. Jesus, I thought, had two New Hampshires on either side of his head.

I lived at 381 Wagonwheel Way from the age of 5 to 14. I loved this house. Every room in the house had a different color carpet. Mine was light pink. My parents was peach. My brother was blue. Downstairs was magenta. The bonus room was teal. The living room was two toned because the carpet installer mismeasured the room’s width and ran out of magenta. So we took the carpet that was left over from my parents room and made a peach border. It was okay to do that back then because it was the 80’s. We had a pool in the back, a hammock in the garden, and lots of snails that made me cry because they were so gross.

Erin Cory lived across the street from me. My phone number was 619 475 1379 (easy to remember because the last four numbers were the corner digits of the keypad). Her number was 619 267 5845. It’s amazing to me that I still remember her phone number. I couldn’t even tell you the area code of my brother’s phone number now. Cell phones took over the part of my brain that remembers phone numbers.

Erin is beautiful. As a child, my mother used to always say “Erin looks like Elizabeth Taylor from National Velvet.” And she was right. Dark lovely eyes, smooth white skin, chestnuty thick hair, and red red lips that were always a little parted. She even had beautiful teeth. They reminded me of the tile in the bathroom my brother and I shared. White. Exact. She cried all the time and could cry on cue. “Erin, Erin! Can you cry? Then maybe we can spend a night at each others house again.” Erin, sensitive, beautiful, soft, sympathetic, empathetic Erin. She cried. And she didn’t cry because I asked her to…she cried because she wanted to spend the night…she cried because she was sad at the terrible thought of spending the night away from her best friend, Irene. Erin, I thought, is amazing.

My mom tucked me into bed every night when I was little. She would ask me “Irene darling. Do you have anything you want to ask God?” “Yes Oma. Can you ask God to give me a nose like Elizabeth Taylor?” I asked this every night for years. My mom would then take her forefinger and thumb and squeeze my nose presumably into the shape that she thought Elizabeth Taylor’s nose was like. I would close my eyes and be comforted that one day I would have a nose like Elizabeth Taylor. A nose like Erin Cory my beautiful, sensitive, precious best friend.

“Dear God. Thank you for allowing us to live another day in your glorious world. Thank you for watching over Irene and Steven. Thank you that they are healthy and thank you that they are happy. Please Lord, give Irene a nose like E.T.”

My eyes flew open. I felt annoyed…my mother had the tendency to turn everything into an acronym. I tugged at her arm. “Oma. Do you think God knows what you mean? Do you think He knows that you mean Elizabeth Taylor and not E.T?”

“Of course, darling” my mother would say. “Why would anyone ask for a nose like E.T?” I guess that's a fair point.

the bike lane is for bikers

one thing that really bothers me is when ppl walk in the bike lane. as if we don't have other things to worry about such as car doors, road raging cab drivers, and billowing truck fumes. oh, and bug in eye is also a good one. i could go on forever.

ppl are in such a hurry to get places in nyc. so much so that they need to shave .005% of travel time to their daily commute and leak over to areas that are not designated as their own. stay on the sidewalk! there are only, like 3 bike lanes in all of nyc. can't the bikers keep them? sheesh.

never realized my ears were deformed

you must watch this video...netti pots unite!

i mean....it's the strangest thing i have ever seen. have you ever heard of a nettipot before? it's good if you have a nose full of snot. (it says no image, but if you click on it, it will work).

i found it!

i feel like i discovered the cure for cancer. i can't believe i found the book. i read it 20 yrs ago. everyone buy it. it's really good. and should be made into a movie starring anne hathaway. i feel so happy right now. like how i felt when my friends and i successfully broke the time-space continuum and fit a 6.5 foot couch through a 5.5 foot doorway.

http://www.amazon.com/Royal-Pain-Point-Ellen-Conford/dp/0590438212/ref=pd_bbs_sr_1/002-6439206-8750416?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1179417969&sr=1-1

the lingonberry mystery

i'm a little tipsy after having a few glasses of wine. and so i don't know why i'm blogging when i really should be asleep. but someone during dinner said the word "lingonberry" which triggered in my mind a book that i read as a teenager. i forget what it's called, but it remains to be the funniest book that i read according to my life level. meaning, i have since read funnier books (burroughs , sedaris, barry etc etc) but relative to my life experience, that book is the funniest. does that make sense. anyway, i'm tipsy so not that articulate. THING IS, i cannot remember the name of the book. the only thing i remember is that the female protagonist was the "lingonberry princess" and she said to the prince "i'd rather make out with a mongoose." so i typed this in google and you'd be surprised how many results come up. i mean, REALLY?

anyway. if you can tell me the name of that book, i will love you forever and ever. (the front cover has a princess who is lifting up her dress to reveal blue jeans. i know - i real hoot! but AT THE TIME, it was age appropriately hysterical).

all of you?

part of my job as a equity salesperson is to take around corporates (in this case, it was a chinese water utility company) to investors so that they can learn about the company's story and figure out if they want to invest in it. because the representatives of these companies are either the CEO or CFO of the company, we have to take them around with drivers.

last week, i was in chicago with said chinese water company. i was in the front seat and giving our driver instructions on what the day was looking like..."so after this meeting, we need to go straight to o'hare by 11 am because we have flights back to new york." then he said, "i love you?"

i was really confused by this non sequitor and obviously really freaked out. "excuse me?!" he said it again: "i love you? i love you?"

i did what any person would do in an awkward situation like this...i just gave him a "ooooookay, weirdo" look and ignored him.

it was not until well into the meeting that i realized what he really said:

"all of you?"

um. yeah. all of us. we're all going to o'hare after the meeting.

tastes like it smells

i took a bite out of a low fat brownie bar and wrinkled my nose (by the way, according to some body language experts, only women wrinkle their noses as a sign of disgust) and declared, "this tastes like SHIT."

i probably shouldn't have said that bc the little girl next to me on the subway said, "how do YOU know what shit tastes like?" kids these days.

i felt like recounting a story to her, but it wouldn't have been appropriate. so i'll write it in my blog. it goes like this:

i was around 7 yrs old & at a church potluck. it was one of those korean extravaganzas at ski beach, san diego. in addition to the actual bbq and the rice, all the families make and bring different "ban chan" or side dishes. i.e. family x and y and z all bring the spinach. and that group over there brings the kim chee. etc etc. then it's all compiled and it's fun and we eat.

i took a bite out of the spinach and chewed and chewed and chewed and the damn thing just wasn't dissolving. i DISTINCTLY remember thinking...i taste something familiar...i just don't know what. i spit out the spinach and there in my little grubby hand was a band aid. really gross i know. BUT. that was the first time i realized that things really DO taste like they smell.

tip: if you want someone to stop talking to you..

you sneeze on them. i didn't do it on purpose (my allergies are out of control) but it works.

people who wear glasses just know

so i do this thing where i put my credit cards in large bags of water and freeze them. i do this because it prevents me from making impulse purchases i.e. $1000 wallets and $300 worth of gum (both of which i have done. but the gum was from asia and who knew when i'd be back in hong kong?). the thinking behind it is that i would go home, take the bag out and while it was thawing, i would be thinking really hard about making xxx purchase.

it's worked out really well. i rarely have a credit card balance.

the other day i saw some eye glasses. they were so cool. they are blue, cat eye like, with wings on the side that have glittery jewels in them. hello kitty would wear them if she had -1.75 in each eye.

and i couldn't wait the 4 hours it takes for the ice to thaw. so i popped the whole thing in the microwave for a few minutes. and the card completely fritzed on me. the magnetic stripe crackled right off. a noxious smell overtook my apartment. it warped and writhed against the still intact ice block.

so i did the most logical thing which was to take the card and bag and ice to the store. and the girl behind the counter (unlike jim from amex who helped me get a replacement card) totally understood. because people who wear glasses just know.

porn - oh well

so i went on www.iwantpink.com instead of www.iwantpink.blogspot.com. surprise!! big boobies and spread eagles with webcams.

i should have done some market research before choosing a blog site name.

to hug your own child

(i'm writing this on my parent's home computer and it translates everything into korean and i accidentally flagged myself as a bad blogger as i was randomly clicking on buttons to start a new post).
*****
i had dinner with clients on thursday night in san diego (JRDN.com - it's a really cool restaurant, right on the water, in PB). i had to take a cab home since my high school honda civic is long gone and i didn't want to rent a car.

i should have known the second i approached the car that the cabbie was a little off his rocker. he didn't unlock the door despite my incessent knocking on the window. when his brain synapses finally equated that "knocking on the window signals door is locked ergo unlock the door, moron" he started talking and did not stop until 25 minutes later.

i don't even know what he was talking about. he was speaking in clicks and clacks and the occasional hiccup. bc i didn't want to encourage him, the only words i ever said in response to his chatter was, "ARE YOU ON DRUGS?" and i was being 100% serious. i was fully prepared to do what i have rehearsed in my mind many many times before in various other situations with weird cabbies: the roll out of a speeding car onto a freeway curled up into a small ball in hopes of bouncing along to safety.

but instead, i just closed my eyes and tried to wait it out.

my parents live in the north part of san diego in a part that is currently being developed off the 56. tho i love my house, it's one of those houses that is made to look old even tho it's brand spanking new. the area itself is quiet, relaxed, has horses and no street lights. NO STREET LIGHTS.

this was a big problem for the driver. as we were driving up a winding hill, he kept on screaming "THIS IS SCARY THIS IS SCARY". He was craning his head to look at me while simultaneously looking at the road so all i could see were the whites of his eye. i think actually his eyes were pointed in opposite directions. i don't know. but i was really freaked out.

i didn't want him to know where i lived, just in case he was truly nuts so i asked him to drop me off in front of the gate where my parents live. i pressed the secret code and the big gates opened and i was just walking down our driveway with my samsonite darth vadar rollie bag. i was a little scared bc it was dark and my heels were echoing but it was so dewy and eucalyptus-y smelling and warm, so my panic was muted.

as i was nearing my house, my mom must have heard me and she came out to greet me. "Ireeeeeeeeeeeen?" she sounded little. she came out in her nightgown and cardigan, so tiny and sleepy looking. the olive trees are lit by little lamps and they cast a little baby halo around her head.

and i felt like crying or laughing. i ended up hugging her and laughing and thought to myself "this is what it must feel like to hug your own child."

observations from a plane

i'm on a plane to california right now. i have a question for the 3 ppl who read this blog:

what do seats 1a, 1b, 3d, 4c, 4d, the guy next to me and 6d all have in common? THEY ALL ORDERED TOMATO JUICE. what is it about planes that makes tomato juice, ice, and a plastic cup so palatable? i really don't think i have ever been in another situation where over FIFTY percent of the ppl around me vocalize a hankering for TOMATO JUICE. in fact, i can't remember the last time anyone ordered tomato juice sans a little absolut and a celery stalk.

this really puzzles me. isn't a plane basically the same thing as sitting on a bus? the last thing...the LAST thing, other than a sharp stick in the eye, is a cup of canned V8.

i don't get it. it's so weird.

i was smarter when i was 9 years old

when i was a kid, i had a black, spiral bound notebook, that i carried with me everywhere. i found it recently and in it were lots of ideas and drawings. mostly of dresses (1950's style, of course) and ideas (like the great idea of having a contraption that you put on the end of a tube of toothpaste so that it would flatten the tube as you pushed it up). yeah, i know it exists. but i was the first one to think of it. i just didn't have the ability to execute.

on the front of it, i wrote in sparkly gold marker "make your life extraordinary" and then put stars all over it. i remember looking at it and thinking "wait. i don't want my life to be EXTRA ordinary." (as in, really REALLY ordinary). so then i underlined the "extra" part of the word twice. i remember feeling horrified that in my attempt to negate the "Extra" part of "extraordinary", i had only called further attention to it perhaps making it somehow prophetic.

i look at my life now and wonder if i did myself in when i was only 9 years old. that somehow i had chisled in stone the fact that my life will be not only ordinary but super duper ordinary.

how depressing. i wish i were 9 again. i knew everything about everything i needed to know. tiger fish, sea anemones, how to spell "auxiliary", the capital of norway. i knew enough to know that when i was an"adult" that i would be extraordinary. now, 2 decades later, i am too dumb to execute.

2:30 am

so it's 2:30 am and i am wide awake. i don't remember the last time this happened to me, especially since starting my severely sleep deprived life on wall street 2 yrs ago.

i was actually dreaming of work when i suddenly awoke. wide awake. then i closed my eyes. then saw big gigantic snails in my minds eye. so then this time i voluntarily awoke because who wants to see that?

and now i'm unable to go back asleep and slightly bitter but more than slightly intrigued at how energized i feel after only 2 hours of sleep. hmm. weird.

i guess i'll go back to bed now and continue to be unable to sleep until right about when i need to wake up. at that point, i will probably be in the middle of the most crucial REM cycle. in the middle of the most amazing dream. in the middle of the height of cell reconstruction.

so if you see me tomorrow and i'm showing signs of lethargy, drowsiness, insaneability (made up word), and inability to operate heavy machinery, this is why.

i think i broke through my Rachel Ray addiction

it's bad for me.
it kills brain cells.
i do it in secret.
i continue to do it even tho i can feel myself growing dumber.
when ppl find out that i do it, they looked at me like i am a bad person.

by definition, c/o wikipedia (another addiction of mine) my rachel ray addiction was indeed an "engagement of behaviors despite clear evidence to the user of consequent morbidity and/or other harmful effects."

god.

i'm not even sure what it is about her show "30 minute meals" that drew me in. it started at the gym...for some reason, it was always on when i got to the gym after work. 30 minute meals fit perfectly into my 30 minute workout. there was something really weird about watching someone cook up a pot of macaroni and cheese while you were purging calories and sweat.

then, rachel creeped into my non-workout hours. maybe it's her raspy voice (female raspy voices have always been a facination of mine), my deep desire to make her over (why does she only wear primary colored shirts? they are way too tight. and her jeans are too tight. this leads to an unfortunate bulge that is reminiscent of that wrinkle in the back of a bald man's head.) or maybe it was trying to figure out what the HELL she meant by "EVOO" ("Extra Virgin Olive Oil). maybe it was her oft used thumbs up sign with her man hands that subconsiously validated deep seeded insecurities...as if rachel thinks that i'm alright. or maybe it's the way she describes mushrooms as "beefy".

i just don't know. but today i was channel surfing. and i felt the all too familiar excitement when i stumbled across rachel ray on the food network. endorphins filled my brain, reinforcing that what i was doing was a good thing.

but immediately, i got a counter feeling. my throat felt like it was closing in. my chest felt tight. i felt like i needed to sigh. i guess i finally did it. i OD'ed on rachel ray.

the last time i OD'ed on something it was Cheezits. i mindlessly ate the entire box then threw up neon orange goo 10 minutes later. i never ate another Cheezit again.

let's see if this works with ... ooh...a DVR-ed episode of The Hills...

be right back.